Could the nuns have sent Rose to Gotham General? The mission had its own infirmary. Selina had checked it out along with everything else and found it occupied by a noisy, but harmless, drunk. The sisters would have kept Rose in the infirmary unless they thought she’d die before Sunday morning, because on Saturday night there wasn’t an emergency room in the city that had time or room for a minor emergency.
Selina pulled the hooded mask down over her face. Rather than brood about where Rose might be, she’d let herself into Old MoJo’s office and find out for sure. Mother Joseph trusted God, the holy saints, and no one else. The lock on her office door was state of the art, but still no match for the supple steel rods Catwoman extracted from an invisible pocket on her thigh. She entered the office and closed the door silently behind her. Her eyes were already adjusted to the darkness; she could have held a phone book at arm’s length and read each number without strain.
The desk was messy—a good sign; it had been unnaturally neat when she’d been here with the kitten earlier. With her arms linked behind her back, Catwoman leaned over, studying the disorder without disturbing it.
“What the—?”
Old MoJo’s handwriting was Parochial School Perfect. Every word was legible; the problem was, most of them weren’t English. After a moment Selina decided they were Latin.
“Not even the Pope uses Latin . . .”
But Latin it was, and remained, no matter how fiercely she stared at it. Selina felt an urge to sweep everything onto the floor, to smash and shatter all that could be broken. Her hands slipped free, they hovered above the desk. It was urges like this that had always gotten her into trouble. Slowly she knotted her fingers, pressing the steel claws harmlessly into the black leather sewn across her palms.