"Before you go, Sister, may I ask you a question?" I asked. She looked puzzled, but nodded. "Do you work with the mentally ill?"
"Of course. It's part of my outreach."
"Ever heard of a company called Jordan River Health Institute? They're no longer in business, but they were a year ago."
She looked surprised, then said, "Actually, I have. Several of my parishioners were scheduled to receive some of their biosoftware. Jordan never delivered."
"Do you remember what the software was supposed to do?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but ..." Her eyes looked up and off to the right as she accessed her LINK-memory. "I think it was supposed to help patients suffering chronic pain. Somehow the software was supposed to stimulate or manipulate the pain and pleasure centers of the brain."
"Really?" Subconsciously I reached for pen and pad then I realized I'd forgotten it. Since the excommunication, I'd been forced to take paper notes like my P.I. ancestors. I'd just have to remember this bit of information. "Do you think they'd actually found the emotional centers of the brain?"
"I doubt it," the nun said. "I mean, I guess I always assumed that's why the orders were never filled. They made promises they couldn't keep." She looked as though she were about to go on, but then stopped. "Why? Why do you want to know all of this?"
"Ghosts. I'm trying to put some ghosts to rest."
"Good luck." Her voice was quiet and, rather than press me, she moved away. "Your church may have abandoned you, Deidre, but God has not."
Startled that she had recognized me, I murmured, "Thanks."
Watching her leave, I felt envious. She had capital letter Faith. I always tried really hard in church to feel the Holy Spirit in me. I never got even a tingle, except when my feet went numb from sitting on them. Next to me in the pew, Eion glowed. The only time I even came close to feeling that kind of fulfillment was when Daniel and I successfully collared a LINK criminal. Eion swore to serve God; I swore to "Serve and Protect." It had been a good balance.
My nose caught a
whiff of something delicious. The smells reminded me that my earlier attempt to eat had been rudely interrupted. Following the odor, I made my way to a bustling deli. The holographic marquee advertised great food first in English, Hebrew, and then Yiddish.
I went inside. The low-level conversation noise filled my head, and I let out a long sigh. This was the perfect place to relax until it was time to meet Michael. I ordered a couple of potato knishes from the counter and jockeyed for a position at a table near the window. I retrieved my paperback from my coat pocket. The older gentleman seated next to me raised his eyebrows curiously at the sight of a hard-copy book, but he smiled as if pleased that someone else still made the effort to bother with print. He toasted me with his coffee cup, and I reciprocated with a knish salute.
I fingered through the dog-eared pages searching for where I'd left the intrepid heroine hanging. Ah yes, I smiled, still arguing with the enigmatic, but darkly handsome hero. Deeply into the novel and just starting my second knish, I heard someone shout my name.
"Deidre!" A hand touched me familiarly on the shoulder. A dark-eyed woman with a crew cut stood next to me. A white patch of scar tissue interrupted an otherwise perfectly shaped eyebrow. It had been almost twenty years, but, despite the new haircut, I recognized Rebeckah immediately.
"I'd ask you to join me, Rebeckah, but ..." I gestured helplessly at the crowd.
A meaningful glance at the man in the seat next to me was all it took for her to commandeer a place at the crowded counter. While her attention was elsewhere, I unobtrusively slipped the paperback into my pocket. Once she'd settled herself, she asked, "It's been a while. How are you?"
"Holding up," I managed to say around a mouthful of knish. "You?"
"Fine." She said absently, watching the door.
I thought about asking her if she was planning on coming to our college's next reunion, but even if there were going to be one, neither of us would go. Rebeckah was underground these days with the Malachim, and I was off the force, excommunicated.
She watched me eat in silence. After inhaling the rest of the potato pastry, I cleared my throat. "You've always been shitty at small talk, Rebeckah. This meeting isn't a coincidence, is it?"
"My mistake. I thought you came here to talk to me."
I raised an eyebrow and looked around the restaurant. Could Rebeckah be implying that this little deli was the headquarters of the Malachim? I decided not to ask. She might not appreciate us being overheard.
"Actually," I said, "I was just out wandering. Maybe it was psychic. I have been thinking about you."
"Oh, really? Decided to join us finally?"
"No," I said, "but I hear we have a mutual friend."
"Is that so?" Leaning back on the stool, Rebeckah observed me carefully. "Who could that be?"
"Michael Angelucci," I said. "Apparently he contacted your people before talking to me. Hear anything about him?"