The Innocent

Or maybe, Matt, she’s very astute and just has a tired-looking face.

Still, what other options were there? When Matt got to the front of the line and his agent wasn’t free, he faked looking for something and told the family behind him to go ahead. He did that one more time and then it was his agent’s turn to say, “Next.”

He approached as inconspicuously as possible. “My name is Matthew Huntler.” He handed her a piece of paper with the booking number on it. She took it and started typing.

“Chicago to Reno/Tahoe, Mr. Huntler.”

“Yes.”

“ID, please.”

This was the hardest part. He had tried to set it up as smoothly as possible. M. Huntler was a member of their frequent-flier club—Matt had signed him up a few hours ago. Computers don’t know from subtlety. Humans sometimes do.

He gave her his wallet. She did not look at it at first. She was still typing into the computer. Maybe he’d get lucky here. Maybe she wouldn’t even check his ID.

“Any luggage to check?”

“Not today, no.”

She nodded, still typing. Then she turned toward his ID. Matt felt his stomach tumble. He remembered something Bernie had sent him by e-mail several years ago. It said:

Here’s a fun test. Read this sentence:

FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.

Now count the F’s in that sentence.

He had done it and ended up with four. The real answer was six. You don’t see every letter. That’s not how we’re built. He was counting on something like that here. Hunter, Huntler. Would someone really catch the difference?

The woman said to him. “Aisle or window.”

“Aisle.”

He’d made it. The security check went even easier—after all, Matt had already been ID’d at the counter, right? The security guard looked at his picture, at his face, but he didn’t come up with the fact that the ID said Hunter while the boarding pass read Huntler. Typos are made all the time anyway. You see hundreds or thousands of boarding passes each day. You really wouldn’t notice such a small thing.

Once again Matt got to his plane right as the gate was about to close. He settled into his aisle seat, closed his eyes, and didn’t wake up until the pilot announced their descent into Reno.

The door to Mother Katherine’s office was closed.

This time there was no flashback for Loren. She pounded hard on the door and put her hand on the knob. When she heard Mother Katherine say, “Come in,” she was ready.

The Mother Superior had her back to the door. She did not turn around when Loren entered. She merely asked, “Are you sure Sister Mary Rose was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

Mother Katherine nodded slowly. “Have you learned her real identity?”

“Yes,” Loren said. “But it would have been easier if you’d just told me.”

She expected Mother Katherine to argue, but she didn’t. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Unfortunately it was not my place.”

“She told you?”

“Not exactly, no. But I knew enough.”

“How did you figure it out?”

The old nun shrugged. “Some of her statements about her past,” she said. “They didn’t add up.”

“You confronted her?”

“No, never. And she never told me her true identity. She said it would endanger others. But I know that it was sordid. Sister Mary Rose wanted to move past it. She wanted to make amends. And she did. She contributed much to this school, to these children.”

“With her work or with finances?”

“Both.”

“She gave you money?”

“The parish,” Mother Katherine corrected. “Yes, she gave quite a bit.”

“Sounds like guilt money.”

Mother Katherine smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

“So that story about chest compressions . . . ?”

“I already knew about the implants. She told me. She also told me that if someone learned who she really was, they’d kill her.”

“But you didn’t think that happened.”

“It appeared to be death by natural causes. I thought it best to leave it alone.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Gossip,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“One of our sisters confided to me that she had seen a man in Sister Mary Rose’s room. I was suspicious, of course, but I couldn’t prove anything. I also needed to protect the school’s reputation. So I needed this investigated quietly and without my betraying Sister Mary Rose’s trust.”

“Enter me.”

“Yes.”

“And now that you know she was murdered?”

“She left a letter.”

“For whom?”

Mother Katherine showed her the envelope. “A woman named Olivia Hunter.”

Adam Yates was closing in on panic.

He parked a good distance from the old brewery and waited while Cal quickly cleaned up. The clues would be gone. Cal’s weapon could not be traced. The license plates they were using would lead to nowhere. Some crazy person might identify a huge man chasing a woman but there would be no practical way of linking them with the dead bartender.

Perhaps.

No, no perhaps about it. He had been in worse scrapes. The bartender had pulled a rifle on Cal. It would have his fingerprints on it. The untraceable gun would be left behind. They would both be out of state in a matter of hours.

They would get through it.

When Cal sat in the passenger seat, Adam said, “You messed up.”

Cal nodded. “I did at that.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to shoot her.”

He nodded again. “A mistake,” he agreed. “But we can’t let her go. If her background comes out—”

“It’s going to come out anyway. Loren Muse knows about it.”

“True, but without Olivia Hunter, it doesn’t lead anyplace. If she’s caught, she will try to save herself. That may mean looking into what happened all those years ago.”

Yates felt something inside him start to tear. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Adam?”

He looked at the big man.

“It’s too late for that,” Dollinger said. “Us or them, remember?”

He nodded slowly.