Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(71)

“No, Sister. It doesn’t involve Sean Park, or this school, at all. How well do you know Father Francisco over at Sacred Trinity?”

I had no idea what Sister Ernestine did in her personal time, but I hoped it wasn’t playing cards, because she had the worst poker face I’d ever seen. The second I said the name, her mouth twisted as if she’d just bit into the foulest tasting thing she’d ever had the misfortune to eat.

I should have known. Even Sister Ernestine had a him. Maybe every single woman in the world has a him. Men, too. I’d had the misfortune of meeting Jesse’s him once.

“Wow,” I said. “That bad, huh?”

She immediately assumed a more neutral expression. “So you weren’t out here discussing books with Miss Walters after all.”

“No. So, Father Francisco? What have you heard?”

Sister Ernestine looked prim. “I will not discuss my personal feelings regarding a fellow educator with an intern. Especially when three of my own students are knee-deep in the waters of a fountain that’s been preserved since the 1700s—”

I glanced at the girls. “They’re having the time of their life.”

“It’s the fountain I’m worried about, Miss Simon, not your nieces.”

“Look, Sister, I’m sorry about that,” I said, trotting to keep up with her as she began striding toward the fountain. When she wanted to, the sister could really motor. “But Becca’s having a really difficult time right now. She’s never told anyone, including her parents, what she just told me. I’m hoping she’s going to choose to come forward with the story herself. But in case she doesn’t, I’m going to need time to gather information before I can file a report.”

“Report?” The nun glanced at me sharply. “Against Father Francisco?”

“Well, he’s definitely involved. I was thinking I should go poke around over at Sacred Trinity to get more information . . . but please don’t worry,” I added hastily. “I won’t say I’m affiliated in any way with the Mission Academy. I’ll probably need the rest of the afternoon off, though.”

To my surprise, Sister Ernestine said, “Of course,” as casually as if I’d asked to borrow a pen.

I was so shocked I was rendered momentarily speechless. The nun used the opportunity to continue briskly, “But kindly remember that failure to report a known act of child abuse within thirty-six hours after you’ve become aware of it can result in a fine, six months in jail, or both. That’s California State Penal Code. So if that girl did say something about Father Francisco—or whoever—you’re obligated to report it. Just because the man’s good looking—and a priest—doesn’t mean we’ll be doing any covering up for him. I’m in charge now that Father Dominic is in the hospital, and what I say goes.”

And with that extremely startling statement, she turned to shout, with impressive force, “You, there! Emily, Emma, and Elizabeth Ackerman! Get out of that fountain right this instant.”

The girls scrambled immediately from the fountain. I didn’t blame them. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of the sister’s whiplike commands.

What I wasn’t so familiar with was what it was like to be her ally. But that’s what I was, suddenly. And I had no idea why.

But I liked it.

“Sister,” I said. “Thank you. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll take care of this thing with Father Francisco, whatever it—”

“Yes, you will. If I come back out here in five minutes and see any of you in this courtyard,” Sister Ernestine bellowed as she stalked away, “there will be no recess for any of you for the rest of the day. Is that understood?”

Wow. Nuns are tough. But maybe they have to be.

The girls, terrified, were scrambling to put on their shoes and socks. Lucia, who hadn’t bothered to remove her riding boots, glanced around for Becca. Not seeing her, she began to look upset . . . until she saw me, and also that Sister Ernestine was moving away, back toward the building in which the classrooms were held. Lucia raced toward me.

“Are you and Becca done talking?” she asked when she’d reached me.

“Um,” I said, looking after Sister Ernestine. “We are. It was a good chat. Becca told me how you died.”

I waited to see what kind of reaction it would have on her, but aside from a slight tightening of the already small mouth, there was none. I felt it was all right to go on.

“I’m going to try to find the man who hurt you, Lucia. I know you don’t want him to hurt Becca or anyone else. Do you have any idea where he is?”

Lucia thought about it. Finally she said, “In the woods. He threw me down into that creek. I hurt my head.” She blinked accusatorily at me. “He’s probably still in the woods if someone would just go look.”

If someone would just go look. Ghosts—especially if they were young when they died—often became confused about time, believing everything came to a standstill after their deaths. To Lucia, Becca would always be seven, and her killer was still at the place where she’d died, murdering her over and over again.

This was no way to exist.

But this was what Paul thought Jesse should be condemned to, for no other crime than that Jesse was keeping Paul from getting what he wanted—me.