“Michael was then killed for warning Sister Kimberly that she was in danger.” The lawyer’s spirit rose at the thought of his friends’ son exhibiting his natural goodness at such peril to his life.
“What a tissue of conjecture,” Emtee Dempsey observed, looking around at her friends. “In the first place, we have no reason at all to think that Michael Layton was connected with this Fastnekker terrorist gang.”
“Of course we don’t,” Benjamin Rush said, switching field.
“Nor do we have any reason to think this is the work of the Fastnekker gang. The idea that her religious conversion was a ploy must deal with the fact that she tried to keep it quiet.”
“The sneakiest publicity of all,” Joyce said.
“Salinger,” Kim agreed.
“What?” Emtee Dempsey looked at her two young colleagues as if they had lost their minds. But she waved away whatever it was they referred to. “We know only two things. First, that a young man named Michael Layton, who had been missing for years, who was lately following Sister Kimberly and claimed to be a policeman when she spoke to him, is dead. Second, we know that our automobile has been destroyed.”
“Our insurance company will probably suspect us of that,” Joyce said.
Benjamin Rush rose. “You are absolutely right, Sister. I have entered into this speculative conversation, but I must repeat that I cannot believe Michael Layton could possibly be involved in anything wrong or criminal. Let us hope that the police will be able to cast light on what has happened.”
4
It was not only those on Walton Street who were reminded of the Fastnekker gang by the exploding Volkswagen. An editorial in the rival of Katherine’s paper expressed the hope that Chicago, and indeed the country, was not on the threshold of a renewal of the terrorism of a decade ago. Readers were reminded of the various groups, including that led by Regina Fastnekker, and the fear was stated that the destruction of the car was only a prelude to something worse. How many like the unfortunate Michael Layton, products of good homes, having all the advantages of American society, suddenly dropped from sight only to turn up, incredibly, as terrorists? The editorial immediately added that there was absolutely no evidence of any connection of Layton with any terrorist efforts, though the explanation he had given of following a member of a Chicago policeman’s family and the fact that he had been found in a building that had exploded from unknown causes would doubtless prompt some to make that connection. Lieutenant Richard Moriarity had led the investigation that resulted in the successful prosecution of Regina Fastnekker.
Katherine Senski threw the paper down on Emtee Dempsey’s desk and fell into a chair. “That is completely and absolutely irresponsible. It is one thing to sit among friends and try to tie things together, but to publish such random thoughts in a supposedly respectable newspaper, well...” She threw up her hands, at a loss for words.
But Katherine’s reaction was nothing to that of Benjamin Rush. Under his distinguished snow-white hair, his patrician features were rosy with rage.
“It is an outrageous accusation against a man who cannot defend himself.”
“Perhaps the Layton family will sue.”
“I am on my way there now. That is precisely what they want to do. Alas, I shall advise them not to. The editorial cunningly fends off the accusation of libel by qualifying or seeming to take back what it had just said. When you add the First Amendment, there simply is no case. Legally. Morally, whoever wrote this is a scoundrel. I now understand the feelings of clients who have urged me to embark on a course I knew could end only in failure. One wants to tilt at windmills!”
“You will be talking to the Laytons today?”
An immaculate cuff appeared from the sleeve of Benjamin Rush’s navy blue suit as he lifted his arm, and then a watch whose unostentatiousness was in a way ostentatious came into view. “In half an hour. I have come to ask you a favor. Actually, to ask Sister Kimberly.”
“Anything,” Kim said. No member of the Order of Martha and Mary could be unaware of their debt to Benjamin Rush. He had saved this house at the time of the great dissolution and had insured that an endowment would enable the order to continue, in however reduced a form.
“It would be particularly consoling for the Laytons if they could speak to someone who saw Michael as recently as you have.”
The request made Kim uneasy. What if the Laytons wished to derive consolation from the fact that it was a nun who had spoken to their son? Kim herself had wondered if he had not perhaps thought that she could be of help, directly or indirectly, in some difficulty.
“I should tell you that while Melissa Layton is quite devout, her husband Geoffrey is a member of the Humanist Society and regards all religion as a blight.”
“Find out which of them the son favored, Sister.”
Having already agreed to help Mr. Rush, there was nothing Kim could do, but she was profoundly unwilling to talk to grieving parents about a son they had not seen in years and to whom she had spoken only once, in somewhat odd circumstances. Mr. Rush’s car stood at the curb where the Volkswagen had always been, but the contrast could not have been greater. Long and grey with tinted glass, it seemed to require several spaces. Marvin, Mr. Rush’s chunky driver, opened the door and Kim got in, and with Mr. Rush at seemingly the opposite end of the sofa, they drove off in comfort to the Laytons.
On the way, Mr. Rush told her a few more things about the Lay-tons, but nothing could have prepared her adequately for the next several hours. Kim had somehow gotten the impression that the Laytons would be Mr. Rush’s age, which was foolish when she considered that the son had been closer to her age, but Mrs. Layton was a shock. She was beautiful, her auburn hair worn shoulder length, her face as smooth as a girl’s, and the black and silver housecoat, floor length, billowed about her, heightening the effect she made as she crossed the room to them. Kim felt dowdy in her sensible suit, white blouse, and veil, and it didn’t help to remind herself that her costume befitted her vocation. Melissa Layton tipped her cheek for Mr. Rush’s kiss and extended a much braceleted arm to Kim.
“Sister.” Both hands enclosed Kim’s and her violet eyes scanned Kim’s face. “Ben assured us that you would come.”
Geoffrey Layton rose from his chair, nodded to Rush, and gave a little bow to Kim, but his eyes were fastened on her veil.
“Come,” Mrs. Layton said. She had not released Kim’s hand and led her to a settee where they could sit side by side. “Tell me of your meeting with Michael.” And suddenly the beauty was wrenched into sorrow and the woman began to sob helplessly. Now Kim held her hand. Mrs. Layton’s tears made Kim feel a good deal more comfortable in this vast room with its period furniture, large framed pictures, and magnificent view.
Mrs. Layton emerged from her bout of grief even more beautiful than before, teardrops glistening in her eyes, but composed. Mr. Layton and Mr. Rush stood in front of the seated women while Kim told her story.
“How long had he been following you around?”
“For several days.”
“That you know of,” Mrs. Layton said.
“Yes. I spoke of it with the other sisters. At first it was just a nuisance, but then it became disturbing. We decided that I should talk to him. On Wednesday morning...”
“Wednesday,” Mrs. Layton repeated, and her expression suggested she was trying to remember what she had been doing at the time this young woman beside her had actually spoken to her long-lost son.
“He said he knew I was a nun.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Layton.