28

SHE COULD not pray.

She knelt and clasped her hands together until the knuckles were white, but still, she could not pray. The wind around the stone building moaned and the echo sang softly down the halls, but there was no other sound. To make a sound would seem almost a sin.

She slipped out of the muslin shift, carefully folded it, and placed it neatly on the bed beside the habit. Naked, shivering in the chill, she took the flat package from the pillowcase where she had concealed it and untied the string. The brown wrapping paper rattled alarmingly as she undid it. There was no underwear, and she wanted to take nothing with her from the convent. She slipped into the jeans. How long since she had worn jeans? The sweater was rough against her bare breasts. There were socks, at least; the canvas shoes would not blister her feet. As she struggled into the nylon parka, she felt an odd weight to one side and unzipped a pocket. The shock of cold metal met her hand. The bastard; this was no place for a pistol. He could have waited to give it to her. She wanted to discard it, but she could not leave a gun in the convent. She shoved it back into the pocket and zipped it again.

Her throat was dry; she poured water from the pitcher on the bedside table. As she set down the empty glass, she saw the rosary there. She picked it up, quickly put it into a pocket, then stopped. Just as she could not leave the pistol, she could not take the rosary. She laid it gently on the habit.

She stepped into the hallway, looked both ways and eased the door shut behind her. The canvas shoes made a tiny, squeaking sound as she ran along the smooth, stone floor, and she slowed to stop the noise. One more door. She slipped into the garden and ran lightly along the rows of dormant plants. No point in bothering with the gate; that would be locked. She found an empty garbage can and upended it. From that she could get an elbow over. Astride the wall, she paused and looked, for a moment, back at the low buildings, awash in moonlight, then threw the other leg over and dropped to the ground. The Volkswagen waited fifty yards down the dirt road, lights out, engine running. The door opened for her as she approached. He laughed and leaned over to kiss her, and she reflexively shoved him away.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it still?” he chuckled. “Well, that’s over, luv. There’s no going back, now.”

“Shut up,” she said, “and drive the motorcar.”