An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Read online

  She looked at the plastic teapot clock on the kitchen wall one more time and then forced herself to go back into their bedroom. She pulled open the middle drawer of the dresser and slipped her hand under her husband's shirts to where she had replaced those horrible pictures. Nothing! She could feel her pulse thudding against her temples. She was holding her breath as she lifted out the shirts and laid them on the bed. Then she removed the handkerchiefs, ironed, folded, and stacked precisely the way he insisted they should be.

  She went through the rest of the drawers, carefully taking out the layers of her husband's clothing and replacing each item exactly as she found it.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—where are they?

  She remembered the Christmas when she gave him that Polaroid camera. Bridget had to be about ten, the age she looked to be in the pictures. Margaret clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. This was her fault. By giving him that camera, she had caused this to happen.

  God forgive me.

  Shaking all over in guilt and confusion, Margaret opened the drawer of the nightstand on Terry's side of the bed and took out his well-used missal. As she did, the three Polaroid photos of their little Bridget, naked on the bed, dropped to the floor. Margaret flinched, and her stomach twisted underneath her pounding heart.

  If he had any idea she had seen them, he really would kill her. God knows he'd threatened to often enough.

  How could this have happened without her knowing? Terry hadn't wanted sex with her for years, but she always thought it was the drink. After Bridget was born he said he didn't want any more children, that they had all they needed, so no more sex. Margaret didn't mind. Everything about Terry was brutal. Sex and its absence from their lives was just one more thing they didn't talk about.

  She threw the pictures on the bed, clapped her hand over her mouth, and bolted for the kitchen sink. She stayed there, gagging and retching, until nothing more came up.

  When the spasms finally stopped, Margaret was bleary eyed and dripping with sweat. She wiped her mouth and face with a paper towel, said a prayer for courage, and went back into the bedroom for the pictures. Her first thought was to destroy them, but a second thought stopped her. Maybe she should keep them, but where? Where would Terry never think to look? He would soon discover they were missing, but she knew the man too well. He'd never mention it.

  Margaret slipped the horrid things into an envelope and put them at the bottom of her box of sanitary napkins in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. That's one place he won't find them. If she weren't so distressed, she might have smiled at her own cleverness, but even a flicker of satisfaction was light years beyond her.

  With the photos safely hidden, she resumed her cleaning of the house. Even if her married life was a mess, at least her house would be presentable.

  Margaret went into the living room and wrinkled her nose in disgust. It smelled like a derelict bar: old beer, squashed cigarettes, and wasted lives. She pushed aside the smoke-tinged lace curtain next to Terry‘s chair and heaved open the window. The contents of the perpetually mounded ashtray spilled over and littered the top of the side table. As she picked up sections of the paper, she noticed a sprinkling of ash and several small round burn holes. It wasn't the first time he'd burned holes in things. It was happening more and more. She had stopped speaking to him about it, because it always precipitated a fire-storm of verbal abuse which usually ended with him screaming that he was going to smoke how and where the hell he wanted, and she could go fuck herself, because she was so old and ugly no one else would. This was usually followed by his pouring himself another whiskey and lighting another cigarette.

  There were many ways that Margaret O’Mara feared for her life. Death by smoke inhalation or being burned to death were only two of them.

  She shook out the scatter rug in front of his chair, put it back in place, and moved on to the dining room where she began to polish the ornate mahogany table. It had been a wedding gift from her mother and father. Poor Mam and Da, thought Margaret, if they had any idea. She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand and began rubbing in earnest. She found woman's work comforting. It was mindless and repetitive, but it showed when you did the job right.

  She thought it curious that Terry, who refused to allow her to work outside the home, encouraged her to become a Eucharistic Minister and regularly bring Holy Communion to the sick and elderly of the parish. He said church work was the one kind of work a woman could do outside the home. Proper wives did not hold real jobs. What was odd was that he insisted that she only volunteer on Saturdays or Sunday afternoons so he could be home with the girls.

  Oh, my God!

  The awful awareness went through her like an electric shock. There was no question in her mind now. She had set the stage for her own daughter's molestation. She crossed herself. “Holy Mary, help me.”

  Margaret lifted the top of the silver chest. She would calm and comfort herself by polishing her grandmother's silver. It reminded her of another time and place when life was not so complicated. A time when Saturdays spent with your parents were safe, and on Sundays the family silver gleamed beside the best china, and dinner was served at three in the afternoon.

  Later in the week she would replace the dingy, smelly curtains in the living room. Maybe she would get some of those fluffy sheers she always wanted. They would certainly be easier to wash instead of those ponderous lace things that were nothing more than smoke magnets.

  Margaret picked up the silver cloth and moved it slowly and deliberately over the surface of the elegant filigreed handle. When she finished with it, she would call Professor Brown at the college.

  On Monday morning Olympia had exactly ten minutes before her next class, barely enough time to listen to her voice-mail. She deleted the first two messages and then listened to Margaret O’Mara's several times. The words were slurred and hard to understand. What was clear was that something had happened to change her mind. Olympia clicked off the machine and reached down into her backpack to make sure she had remembered to bring the information on domestic violence from the women's center. She wanted everything at hand when Margaret called back.

  What she was not prepared for was turning to find a man she didn't know walking into her office. He was a big man, red faced with thick jowls, wearing a well-tailored, dark blue pinstripe suit. He did not extend his hand but stood, feet apart, looking down at the seated Olympia and introduced himself as Terry O’Mara, Bridget Mary O’Mara's father. Then he turned and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “And you are Professor Olympia Brown?”

  Olympia started to get up, but he waved her back down.

  “I'm Professor Brown,” said Olympia, ignoring the gesture and standing next to her desk. She could feel the tension pulsating from the man. He wasted no words.

  “I understand my daughter Bridget is staying with you.”

  “Why don't you sit down, Mr. O’Mara? How can I help you?”

  “I'm not staying, Professor.” He spat out the last word.

  “I know that my wife called you yesterday when she thought I was asleep.” Terry took a step closer to Olympia and leaned into her face. His breath stank of cigarettes and mouth wash.

  “Look, Missy, something's going on, and that same something is making me think you might be involved with it. My daughter moves in with you, then my wife calls you whispering into the phone, and I hear her say the word ‘information.’”

  Olympia tried to look past the man, praying a student or one of the maintenance men would wander in, as they sometimes did. But Terry's presence blocked the door and filled the room. She folded arms across her chest and leaned against the edge of the desk so he wouldn't see her shaking.

  “Mr. O’Mara, your daughter wanted to be out of the dorm for a while, and I need some help at home. The Dean is aware of the situation. I've done this kind of thing before. Your wife might have been concerned and wanted to get in touch with me. The college won't give out faculty telephone number
s, so she must have tried to reach me here.”

  Terry took another step closer. “Professor, the O’Maras do not discuss personal business outside the family, do you understand that?”

  “Mr. O’Mara, I …”

  “Busybodies get hurt, Professor. It's always tragic, but I've seen it happen. I thank you for helping my daughter, but if she doesn't want to stay at the college, then she needs to come home to her family. You may have an unlisted number, Professor, but you weren't hard to find.”

  Terry's voice took on an even more menacing tone. “Brookfield's a nice little town, Professor Brown, not too close, not too far away. Easy commute, right? I have a couple of buddies on the police force there.”

  “Mr. O’Mara …”

  “Have a nice day, Professor Brown, or should I call you, Reverend? I think you'll agree that it's time for my daughter to get out of your house.” Terrence O’Mara lifted his hand to his forehead in a mock tip of the hat, then turned and walked slowly out of Olympia's office.

  Now it was not only her hands that were shaking. She had just been openly threatened, and there was absolutely no way she could prove it to anyone. Who would believe her? Jim would believe her, and didn't he say this man was a nasty piece of work?

  Olympia took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down before calling him. Before she even reached for the phone, it rang, scaring her out of what few remaining wits she had left. It was Bridget's mother.

  “Propheffa?” Her speech was definitely garbled.

  “It's me, Margaret, how can I help you?” Olympia picked up a pencil and tried to keep her voice steady.

  “I … I hab do fomefing. Can you fee-me and give me thofe namef you t'ol me ‘bouth?”

  Olympia dared not say that Terry had just been there. “Speak slowly, please, Margaret. I'm having trouble understanding you.

  Laboriously, the woman explained again that she wanted the information about domestic abuse and women's shelters and asked if Olympia would meet her outside a supermarket near where she lived. She said that nobody would take any notice of two women standing passing the time of day and then explained that it was called The Big Buy, and it was on the corner of Gallivan Boulevard and Adams Street.

  Olympia said she would be there in less than an hour.

  “I'll be waiting.” Her speech was improving.

  “What if you're not?”

  “I'll be there.”

  Sweet Jesus, what do I do now?

  Olympia felt like she had just been run over by a dump truck that she'd never seen coming. A desperate woman had just called her for help, and now, possibly through the plight of the mother, she and Jim just might be able to help the daughter. Olympia glimpsed an unexpected window of hope. How the hell do I get myself into these things? No, make that why do I get myself into these things? Olympia didn't need to remind herself that both were rhetorical questions.

  She scrawled a quick note to Bridget, saying she had to go out for a while, but she'd be back by four that afternoon. With that done and taped to the outside of her door, she started out of her office to find a frightened, desperate woman in the heart of Irish Catholic Dorchester. Then stopped dead and returned to her office and dialed Jim's cell phone. He picked up at the rectory.

  “Jim? It's Olympia. I need help. Terry O’Mara's just been here and threatened me. Told me not to mess with his family and to send Bridget home or back to the college.”

  “That's bad news. Look, do you want me to go over to his office and have a little one-on-one with him and set him straight?”

  “God, no, Jim, you can't do that. He'd know we've been in contact. I'm really afraid for Margaret. She left me a message over the weekend, and then she actually called me just a few minutes ago. She sounded awful. Her speech was slurred, but she wanted me to meet her and give her the information on domestic violence and abuse. I'm wondering if instead of that, maybe you should make a pastoral house call and check on her.”

  “I can go over there and say I was in the neighborhood. She wasn't in church yesterday, so it would be natural for me to make a pastoral call.”

  “I think you should, Jim. I'm not going to say anything to Bridget until we know more. She's got enough on her mind. You don't think Terry would actually come to Brookfield and make trouble, do you?”

  “Olympia, there's no way of knowing what that man would do. If he senses danger, he's going to strike first. I told you I didn't trust him. He's bad news. Be careful, and watch your back.”

  Olympia shook her head. It was hard to believe what she was hearing, but there was no mistaking the message.

  “I hate saying this, Jim, but he scared the hell out of me.”

  “I'll go over to the house right now. She's sure to be there. If she's in such bad shape that she called you, then I might be able to get her to agree and go with me right away. If she does, I'll take her straight to a battered women's shelter that's run by Catholic Charities.”

  “Is there any way Terry will be able to find her?”

  “Not a chance. We'll deal with him later, but until we do, I repeat, don't take any chances. He's mean, and he's smart, and he's getting nervous. Not a good combination.”

  “I'll be careful, Jim. Thank you. Let me know what happens. I'll stay here until I hear from you.”

  Olympia got up, pulled the note she'd left for Bridget off the door, and gathered up the materials for the next class. She was relieved that she didn't have to make a mad dash to the middle of Dorchester and curious as to what in the world would happen next.

  Now, if we can just Bridget turned around, I could be out of this mess before Frederick gets here.

  Jim Sawicki pocketed his cell phone and pulled on his black suit jacket, automatically checked the collar button at the back of his shirt, and threw his black overcoat over his arm, just in case. The wind still had a bite to it, and he would be grateful to have it if he needed to be out of doors for any length of time.

  When he parked in front of the O’Maras’ gray and white two-family, he was thankful that Terry's car was nowhere to be seen. The three-story, wooden frame house was a typical middle income Dorchester dwelling built in the 1930s. He knew that the O’Maras owned the house and rented out the first floor apartment from time to time. For the moment it was unoccupied. There was a white plastic intercom box next to the front door, and only when Jim rang a second time did he hear Margaret's voice asking who was there.

  “It's Father Sawicki, Margaret. You weren't in church yesterday, and I was in the neighborhood. May I come in?”

  There was a long pause, but the crackly static coming from the speaker told Jim the line was open. He tried again, counting on the fact that she would never turn away a priest. In that neighborhood, it just wasn't done.

  “Margaret?”

  The sharp bra-a-a-ck of the door buzzer startled him, but he moved quickly and opened the door before she could change her mind. He could hear the sound of a lock being turned as he mounted the stairs. Margaret opened the door as he reached the top. He could see that she was wearing dark glasses and a neck scarf arranged so that it partially hid her mouth and jaw. She looked down and away, not meeting his eyes.

  “Margaret, what's happened to you?”

  “I uh thripped over a looth bit of carpeth, Father, fell and hit the coffee thable. I'm a right mess. Tha's why I didn't go to math yesterday. I'll go thwice next week, when the thwelling goes down. That'll make up for it.”

  Contrary to what the family counseling textbook said about dealing with domestic abuse victims, Jim took a direct approach. There was too little time.

  “Margaret, look at me. Terry did this to you, didn't he?”

  Bridget's mother turned away and began picking at the hem of her scarf. “Would you like a cup of thea, Father?”

  “Margaret, I don't think you fell. You look like you have been brutally beaten by someone, and I think that someone is your husband. This is not the first time I've seen you looking like this, but it certainly
is the worst so far. You can't keep letting him do this to you. Look at me, Margaret.”

  She slowly raised her face, and as she did, the scarf fell away and exposed the awful truth. She pulled away and tried to cover it with her hand, but Jim had seen enough.

  “You need to get out of here. Let me take you to a women's shelter, today, right now. Go get your coat.”

  “But, Father …”

  “Margaret, you are a victim of domestic violence. If you stay, you could end up dead. I want you to come with me. If, after a few days in the shelter, you want to come back, no one can stop you. I can't even make you come with me now, but if you don't, I promise you I will call the police and report that I am witness to the fact that you have been viciously beaten and just exactly who did it.”

  Jim had just played his ace and hoped to God he hadn't gone too far. He could see the struggle in her eyes and the quivering in what was left of her jaw under the swelling. He knew he was pressuring her, but Father Jim Sawicki was trying to save her life.

  He spoke more gently this time. “Please, Margaret, just go get your things, and don't forget any medicines you take. All you'll need for now is a nightgown and bathrobe and maybe a change of clothes. The nuns will have anything else you need.”

  “Nunsh?”

  Margaret raised her head and made eye contact for the first time.

  “The place I'm taking you is run by an order of street nuns, no habits, no cloistered convents, just ordinary women doing God's work where it needs to be done.”

  “I'll be right back, Father. I don't need much.” Jim noted that her speech had improved slightly.

  In the bedroom Margaret moved like a mechanical doll. One by one, she gathered up a nightgown and robe, a change of underwear, a fresh blouse and skirt, and a couple of hankies. She shook her head and mindlessly stuffed the clothing into the oversized handbag she used on her church and hospital days. She looked around one last time and then picked up a chipped plaster statuette of the Virgin Mary that Bridget had decorated with red nail polish one day when she was in kindergarten and Margaret was busy in the other room. Before the awfulness began. She wrapped her Blessed Mother in the hankies and cushioned it in so it would be safe and went back out into the living room where Father Jim stood waiting.