Twenty-four hours after the abbess disappeared, the nuns called the police. A short time later, a detective arrived at the convent, smoking a cigarette, and rang the doorbell. A small hand-painted sign on the front door read, “CLOISTERED CONVENT. NO TRESPASSING.” The detective heard a woman’s voice come over the intercom.
“Who is this?” asked a shrill, tinny voice over the intercom.
He took the cigarette from his mouth and stepped closer. “This is Detective Mulligan from the police department. May I speak with you?”
“I’m Sister Portia, the portress. How can I help you?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve come to investigate the disappearance of the abbess. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, detective. This is a cloistered convent. Only the abbess can allow access."
The detective tossed the cigarette to the ground. “I don’t think you understand, Sister. I can’t do my job unless I'm allowed in”
The intercom squeaked. “Bear with me. I’ll see what I can do.”
A few minutes later, the detective heard a noise through the old wooden door and the viewing hutch opened. A nun pressed her chubby face against the small grated opening.
“Better now?” the nun asked.
"Uh...well...I guess so."
Samuel stopped writing and rested his eyes. It was almost noon, and he needed to get some fresh air. His left arm was numb, and his head was throbbing. As he opened the door, he saw the sun high and misty over the snowy landscape. He walked to the concrete bench in the backyard with unsteady steps and sat down with his hands in his pockets, thinking about the story. He still hadn't decided where the story was going.
"You need a computer," the voice said.
"Me? Don't be ridiculous," he replied.
"Yes, you do. Get one."
"I said no. Get lost."
"Alright, but don't take too long or your feet will freeze off."
"Yeah, I'd better go back inside. I have to write something before I forget."
The nun flashed him a smile through the grate. “Now you can interrogate me,” she said, her face still pressed against the square opening.
The detective pulled a notepad from his pocket and scratched his beard.
“Alright. So... could you tell me when the last time you saw the abbess was?”
The nun’s face had disappeared from the opening. She had been standing on tiptoe to peer through the small hatch and needed to rest her feet.
“Sister? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here!” she said, waving her hand behind the hatch.
“Listen, Sister, I don’t want to cause you any trouble, but when someone disappears, the first twenty-four hours are crucial. Couldn’t you just open the door and let me in?”
There was silence.
“I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” he said.
“All right, but step back, take off your shoes, drop your gun, and turn off your phone. I’ll open the door in a minute.”
“Is she going to frisk him?” the voice asked.
“Of course not. She’s just being cautious. It’s just routine.”
“Routine? You’re like the guards at Alcatraz.”
“Don’t mess with my mind now. This dialogue is key to the whole plot.”
“OK, then I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
