The Devil's Own Crayons Read online

  Gingerly, he pulled the blanket off his arm and uncoiled it. “It’s on fire.”

  The entire hand appeared red and swollen, its skin shiny and stretched tight, as if he’d had an allergic reaction to a bee sting. She reached for it. “I wonder if...”

  “Don’t,” he said, and started to pull it back.

  “Please,” she said.

  Grimacing, he extended it out to her. “Hurts like hell. It’s almost as if...”

  “What?”

  “I swear I can feel the other fingers. The missing ones.”

  Gently, she cupped a palm over the knobs at the end of his hand. The skin was hot to the touch. “Did something bite you while you were asleep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to get you to a doctor.”

  “I don’t have insurance.”

  “We’ll figure something out.” She wrapped an arm around him.

  Together, they went up the stairs. He held onto the rail with his right hand and kept his left tucked into his chest. When he reached the first floor, he stopped and teetered at the top. She came up behind him, put a hand on his back and guided him to the kitchen. He sat down at the table, resting his left hand in his lap. She got on the phone.

  A half a dozen nuns – mostly the younger ones – were milling around. A kettle was whistling. “Trey, you want a cup of tea?” someone asked.

  He shook his head and put his right arm up on the table. Dropped his forehead over it. “I gotta puke.”

  One of the women got a wastebasket and set it on the floor next to him. He lifted his head and grabbed the basket. Buried his head inside. Vomited something yellow and sour. “I feel like crap,” he said into the wastebasket.

  The abbess hung up the phone. “Urgent care is closed. We’ve got to take you to the ER.”

  Petit heaved again. Sister Jane handed him a paper towel. He dragged it across his mouth and blew his nose. “What if he gets sick in the car?” she asked.

  The mother superior looked at him and frowned. “Maybe you should come along, in case I need help with him.”

  “I’ll throw on some clothes and meet you at the front door,” said the younger nun, running out of the room.

  Mother Magdalen addressed the rest of the kitchen. “All of you, back to bed. The whole house doesn’t need to be involved in this.”

  The abbess helped Petit out of his chair and walked him to the front hallway. Sister Jane passed them, jiggling the keys. “I’ll pull it up,” she said, and went outside.

  After putting on her coat, the abbess helped him with this jacket. He couldn’t tolerate having the sleeve pulled over his left hand, so she draped that half of the jacket over his shoulder. He’d worn sweatpants and a tee shirt to bed. She set his workbooks on the floor so he could step into them. As she was pulling the door open, they heard footsteps behind them.

  Standing in the middle of the hall was Babette, bleary-eyed and in her pajamas. She rubbed her eyes with her pudgy fist. “Can I go, too?”

  Petit managed a weak grin. “You think we’re making a Dairy Queen run or something?”

  “Go to bed,” ordered the abbess.

  The girl padded up to Petit and handed him a sheet of paper. “I finished. Take it with you.”

  “Uh, thanks Missy.”

  As he and the mother superior stood on the porch waiting for Sister Jane to pull up, he held the picture behind his back. Mother Magdalen glanced over and squinted in the dimness of the porch light. “I heard about that.”

  “She didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “She spends too much time drawing, and not enough playing outside.” She pulled her coat tighter around her narrow shoulders. “I wasn’t even allowed to have crayons when I was in school.”

  The two women sat in the front seat of the station wagon, with the younger nun behind the wheel. Petit slouched in the back seat, the side of his head resting against the window. No other vehicles were behind or in front of them. Yard lights from the occasional farmstead broke through the inky blackness of the country night. During the forty-minute drive, most of the conversation involved directions to the community hospital.

  “You should have turned there,” he said.

  “Shoot,” said the young driver.

  “Take the next right,” said the abbess.

  “Not here,” he said, as the car slowed. “It doesn’t go through.”

  “How are you doing back there?” asked the mother superior.

  The front passenger visor was down, and he could see her eyeing him in the makeup mirror. “Hand still hurts, but I think I’m through puking.”

  Sister Jane turned on the radio and got static. The abbess reached over the punched it off. “Concentrate on your driving, Sister.”

  After a long silence, sudden ringing made everyone in the car jump out of their seats. “Sorry,” said Sister Jane, slipping a hand into her pocket. “It’s my cell. I’m turning it off.”

  “Who is calling you at this hour, Sister?”

  “Probably a telemarketer.”

  The abbess sniffed. “Telemarketer. Lovely. Why do you insist on having a cell? They should be banned entirely – and telemarketers should be outlawed.”

  No crayons or radios or cell phones. If it were up to Mother Magdalen, everything would be outlawed, thought Petit. If she ever caught him with his weed, he’d be toast. She was still watching him in the mirror, and it made him uncomfortable. He turned his head and stared through the back passenger window. The drawing was in his lap, the paper serving as a resting spot for his bad hand. He could feel the crayon marks, and their waxy smoothness seemed to cool his throbbing stumps.

  In the ER exam room, Mother Magdalen took a seat on one side of the bed and Sister Jane dropped down in a chair on the other side. Guards flanking a prison inmate. A nurse took his temperature, announced he had a slight fever, and left the three of them alone, pulling the curtained walls closed after her.

  The abbess eyed the rolled up paper in his right fist. “Why did you bring that thing in with you?”

  “What?”

  “The drawing.”

  He raised the tube and chuckled. “Forgot I had it.”

  She stood up and reached for it. “I’ll throw it away.”

  He yanked it out of her reach. “I want it.”

  She sat back down. “Fine.”

  “Should I get some coffee from vending?” asked Sister Jane.

  “No one needs anything,” said the mother superior. “Stay still, Sister. We’re in a hospital. Pray for all the sick in the world.”

  The curtains parted and a doctor stepped next to the bed. A stethoscope was draped around his neck and a clipboard was in his hands. “What’ve we got going on tonight?” he asked as he flipped through the pages. “Something up with that hand?”

  “He woke screaming from the pain, doctor,” said Mother Magdalen.

  The doctor nodded and kept flipping. “We took care of you here after your accident.”

  “Yeah,” said Petit.

  “Why is it giving him trouble?” asked the abbess.

  The doctor set down the chart and gently lifted Petit’s hand. “Move your fingers for me.”

  Petit did as he was told, wiggling the pinky and ring finger.

  “How does that feel?” asked the doctor, his eyes going from the hand to the patient’s face.

  “Okay,” mumbled Petit.

  “Doesn’t appear swollen,” said the doctor.

  The abbess leaned over and stared at the hand. “Doctor, it was very red and enlarged. Infected. He was vomiting.”

  Amazed and confused, the patient blinked at his own hand as the doctor held it. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “You’re running a slight fever,” said the doctor, setting the hand down. “You might have something viral. Symptoms of the influenza virus can include headache. Muscle and joint aches. Fever. Did you get your flu shot this year?”

  “Doctor, it wasn’t the flu,” said the abbess
, rising from her seat. “His hand...”

  “Phantom limb pain,” interrupted the doctor. “Cramping. Aching. Twitching. A sensation similar to an electrical shock.”

  “It was on fire,” said Petit.

  “Burning sensations are very common. Did you do something to aggravate it? What were you doing right before it started acting up?”

  “Sleeping,” Petit said.

  “Before that. What did you do this evening?”

  Petit wasn’t going to volunteer that he’d gotten stoned. In the back of his mind, he feared some bad reefer had caused the whole episode. He tried to steer the conversation away from his nighttime activities. “My fingers have been gone for a couple of years.”

  “This sort of thing can manifest itself immediately after the amputation, or years later.” Retrieving the chart, the doctor clicked his pen and started writing. “Up to eighty percent of patients experience some level of PLP following amputation, yet we know very little about what causes it.”

  “What if it comes back?” asked Petit, sitting up on his elbows.

  “Poor circulation is thought to be one of the culprits. Try wrapping your hand in a warm cloth or a heating pad, to increase blood flow. Mild exercise could help. A soak in a hot tub. I had a patient who got some relief by wrapping his leg stump in a compression bandage.” The doctor continued writing. “I’ll send you home with some Ace bandages.”

  During the ride back to the convent, Petit kept his bad hand on his lap, waiting for it to fire up again. In his right fist was the rolled up drawing. Scattered next to him on the back seat were the Ace bandages. Neither of the women made conversation with him or each other. Petit figured they were tired or mad that they’d wasted their time. The worst part was that old Sister Prune had been right. He stared out the passenger window and tapped the paper tube on his knee.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Rossi’s colleagues had predicted, a replacement contact materialized at the restaurant. Same notched collar as the man found dead on the bridge. Similar white hair and wild brows. More than anything, Rossi wanted to grill this guy about what had happened during the night. Did he know the man who had been found poisoned? Did he believe it was suicide, or had the priest been murdered? She remembered her orders, however: No questions.

  If her guide was acquainted with the victim, he was doing a good job of masking his emotions. He prattled on about the morning haze that had enveloped Vatican City and the much larger city beyond its walls. He apologized profusely, as if the air quality were solely his responsibility to maintain, and had assured her in two languages that the spring sunshine would burn off the mist.

  Even though he was a head shorter, she had to jog to keep up with him as he led her across St. Peter’s Square. Dressed in a black cassock, he blended in with the other darkly clothed religious milling about, and Rossi repeatedly lost sight of him. The biggest distraction was the renowned square itself, however. At the top of the horseshoe-shaped piazza was the basilica. Coming down from either side of St. Peter’s were massive columns, stone arms curving around in a welcome hug. Watching from above the columns were statues of saints. Well over a hundred of the figures stood at attention, an army of the good and the dead.

  The way he was charging forward, Rossi thought the priest was going to take her straight into St. Peter’s Basilica, but he hung a quick right before they reached it.

  “We go to the Apostolic Palace,” he said, and proceeded to lead her through the colonnade to a set of bronze doors.

  A Swiss Guard stood watch, armed with a combination axe and pike, mounted at the end of a six-foot long wooden handle. He wore a dark cape-like coat and trousers that resembled pantaloons, striped with wide vertical bands of blue and yellow. A white collar stuck up stiffly around his neck. A black beret sort of cap, sagging jauntily to one side, topped the ensemble. Dashing, in a Renaissance Fair sort of way.

  Her escort flashed his identification and she fumbled around with hers. The guard retrieved a clipboard from his desk, checked a list and made a phone call. After a five-second conversation, he hung up and let the both of them through. They mounted steps to a courtyard, and stepped into an antique elevator. As she and the priest rode up in silence, Rossi wondered what business the bureau could possibly have in the Apostolic Palace. She knew the complex contained the Papal Apartments, as well as some of the Catholic Church’s administrative offices.

  The elevator doors parted and he motioned her ahead with a wave of his hand. “This way, signora.”

  They walked through one gleaming marble hall after another, a maze of carved ceilings, massive paintings and ornate furniture. As they swept past tall windows draped in long, sheer curtains, she caught a glimpse of the world outside. The sun had indeed made an appearance as promised. “Beautiful day,” she murmured.

  “Tomorrow it will be hot. Caldo.” He stopped at a small door to their left and opened it.

  They went down a long, narrow passageway with low ceilings and dim lighting. The corridor spilled into a room the size of a walk-in closet, with walls decorated by frescoes and yet another elaborately carved ceiling. He went to a phone in the corner of the antechamber and picked it up. Punched in a number. Spoke in a hushed voice. “Si, si. Adesso.”

  He set down the phone and went to a small door to the left of the phone. Knocked twice. The door popped open and he waved her inside. “Quickly, please.”

  Rossi stepped through and turned around to address her escort. The door slammed in her face, with the priest on the other side of it. She heard a bolt slide. “Thanks, Father,” she said to the slab of wood.

  He’d led her to a library. The room’s walls were lined with towering bookshelves, interrupted to make way for paintings and crucifixes. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. An oriental carpet covered the center of the marble floor, and white upholstered armchairs were lined up along the perimeter of the rug. Against the far wall was a large but plain wooden desk. Mounted to the wall behind it was a painting that reached to the ceiling. Jesus was floating over an open sarcophagus, angels flanking him in the air. In Christ’s hand was a white flag adorned with a red cross – the symbol of victory over death.

  Rossi heard murmuring and snapped her head around. Off in a corner were two men, speaking to each other in low voices. She walked over to them. “Ciao.”

  Both men stopped talking and stared at her. One folded his arms in front of him. “Ciao,” he responded, and nodded his head.

  Yet another notched collar. As priests went, this one wasn’t tough on the eyes. Tall and lean. Curly black hair salted with gray. Dark, long lashes. Olive skin. One of those five o’clock shadows that stayed with some men no matter when they shaved. Prominent nose. The other guy – a little shorter and much more muscular - obviously wasn’t a priest. He had long, blond hair tied into a ponytail and wore diamond studs in his ears. The golden beard stubble coloring his lantern jaw had to be the result of a genuine lack of shaving, for days. He was dressed in khaki slacks, a silk vest embroidered with the labels of whiskey bottles, and a tweed blazer. A blue shirt and pink striped tie finished the outfit. He was either color blind or English.

  The blond smiled broadly and asked in a thick brogue: “How are you keeping?”

  Not English, she thought. Scottish. “I’m good,” she said.

  “An American,” he said with a grin.

  “You got me.”

  “You’re a younger, curvier version of that Aussie actress, don’t you?” He snapped his fingers. “What’s her name?”

  The priest ignored the Scot’s question and eyed her suspiciously. “Why are we here, signora? Who are you?”

  He had an accent, too. Middle Eastern, but not too thick. “You go first,” she said. “Who are you? Who’s in charge here?”

  “That’s me away,” said the Scotsman, starting across the room.

  She didn’t understand him. “What?”

  “He’s telling us that he’s leaving,” said the priest.
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br />   The small door creaked open and a fourth person stepped inside the library. “No one leaves.”

  All heads turned. The speaker was tall and rotund. He wore a black cassock trimmed in red, with a red sash tied around his wide waist. A red skullcap topped his head. From underneath poked straight, white hair cut in a severe line around his head, following the shape of the cap. The pieces of him that weren’t draped in fabric – face, ears and hands – were uniformly ruddy and veined.

  Rossi, the Scotsman and the priest clumped together in the middle of the carpet. Startled herd animals seeking safety in each other. “He’s a cardinal, right?” Rossi whispered to the priest.

  The priest nodded and whispered back. “A very influential one. Cardinal Antonio Nardini.”

  The cardinal started across the carpet and the priest peeled off from the herd to greet his superior. “Your Eminence,” he said, and bent over the cardinal’s ring.

  “I’m not kissing anything,” Rossi growled to the Scotsman.

  “Aye,” the Scotsman whispered in agreement.

  Putting his meaty hand in the middle of the priest’s back, Nardini guided his guest while glancing over his shoulder at the two lay people. “Please. Come. Sit.”

  The cardinal eased his large figure into a chair parked behind the desk and with an open hand, indicated the trio should take the seats lined up along the other side. The priest and the Scotsman nodded at Rossi, and she dropped down into the middle chair. The priest sat on her right. The Scotsman tugged down on his vest and took the seat on her left.

  Meshing his fingers together atop the desk, the cardinal said, “The three of you, you have been brought here to help us.”

  “Your Eminence,” said the priest, folding his hands in his lap. “Whatever I can do to serve the Holy See...”

  “Sir...uh...Father,” interrupted Rossi, struggling with how to address the cardinal. Your Eminence sounded ridiculous to her heathen ears. “Please tell us in plain English. Tell me. Who are these gentlemen? Why am I here? Why are they here?”

  “You are all three here because you have skills.” Nardini nodded at the Scotsman. “Padruig MacLeod is a professional doubter. A skeptic.”