The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,60

all right if we came in? To ask you and the other ladies a couple of questions?”

Which was how they came to be standing in the living room of the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy: two large men in dark suits, smelling of masculine sweat. Their hulking presence seemed to change the room, make it smaller. Except for the occasional repairman or a visit from Father Fagan from the rectory, no other men ever came into the house.

“I’m sorry, Officers,” Arnette said, “could you tell me your names again?”

“Of course.” That smile again: confident, ingratiating. So far, the young one hadn’t said a single word. “I’m Agent Wolgast, this is Agent Doyle.” He glanced around. “So, is Amy here?”

Sister Claire cut in. “Why do you want her?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you ladies everything. But you should know, for your own safety, that Amy is a federal witness. We’re here to place her under protection.”

Federal protection! Arnette’s chest tightened with panic. It was worse than she had thought. Federal protection! Like something on TV, on those police shows she didn’t want to watch but sometimes did, because the other sisters wanted to.

“What did Lacey do?”

The agent’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “Lacey?”

He was trying to pretend that he knew, to open a space for her to talk so he could draw information out of her; Arnette could see this clearly. But of course that’s just what she’d done; she’d given them Lacey’s name. No one had said anything about Lacey except Arnette. Behind her, she could feel the other sisters’ silence pressing upon her.

“Sister Lacey,” she explained. “She told us Amy’s mother was a friend.”

“I see.” He glanced at the other agent. “Well, perhaps we’d better talk to her as well.”

“Are we in any danger?” Sister Louise said.

Sister Arnette turned to her with a silencing scowl. “Sister, I know you mean well. But let me handle this, please.”

“I wouldn’t say danger, not exactly,” the agent explained. “But I think it would be best if we could speak to her. Is she in the house now?”

“No.” This was Sister Claire. She was standing defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest. “They left. At least an hour ago.”

“Do you know where they went?”

For a moment, no one said anything. Then, within the house, the telephone rang.

“Please excuse me, gentlemen,” Arnette said.

She retreated to the kitchen. Her heart was pounding. She was grateful for the interruption, as it could give her a chance to think. But when she answered the phone, the voice on the other end was no one she recognized.

“Is this the convent? I know I’ve seen you ladies over there. You’ll have to pardon my calling like this.”

“Who is this?”

“Sorry.” He was speaking in a rush, his voice distracted. “The name’s Joe Murphy. I’m head of security at the Memphis Zoo.”

There was some kind of commotion in the background. For a moment he spoke to someone else: Just open the gate, he said. Just do it, now.

Then he was back on the line. “Do you know anything about a nun who might be over here with a little girl? A black lady, dressed like you all do.”

A buzzing weightlessness, like a swarm of bees, filled Sister Arnette. On a perfectly pleasant morning, something had happened, something terrible. The door to the kitchen swung open; the agents stepped into the room, trailed by Sister Claire and Sister Louise. Everyone was staring at her.

“Yes, yes, I know her.” Arnette was trying to keep her voice low but knew this was pointless. “What is it? What’s going on?”

For a moment the line was muffled; the man at the zoo had placed his hand over the receiver. When he lifted his hand she heard yelling, and crying children, and behind it, something else: the sound of animals. Monkeys and lions and elephants and birds, screeching and roaring. It took Arnette a moment to realize that she wasn’t just hearing these sounds over the phone; they were coming through the open window, too, traveling clear across the park into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” she pleaded.

“You better get over here, Sister,” the man said. “This is the goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lacey, breathless and running, soaked to the bone: she was carrying Amy now, clutching the little girl to her chest, the girl’s legs clamped tightly around her waist, the two of them lost in the zoo, its maze of pathways. Amy was crying, sobbing into Lacey’s blouse—what I am, what I am—and other people were