Angel Fire (20 page)

“Good morning,” she said to the killer, staring at her own eyes in the mirror. “I’m coming after you today.”

She thought about the package he’d left for her last night.

“Well, he’s fucking with us now,” Jeffrey had said, annoyed. “He was right at your doorstep.”

He’d been angry last night. Angry that the killer had been right within his grasp and got away, and angry at Lydia for the same reason, she imagined. They had sat again at the kitchen table after the police had left, taking the package to be analyzed at the lab. They were avoiding totally what had almost happened between them in the woods, avoiding Jeffrey’s obvious pain and frustration and talking about the “gift” the killer had left.

“He obviously knows you, knows where you live, and knows what you do for a living. He gave it a lot of thought. Which means he gives
you
a lot of thought,” Jeffrey had said quietly.

She had nodded, the impact of the visit finally pressing on her. “It means that I am part of his design, that I figure somehow into his plan.”

“How did he know you were involved?”

“Maybe that was always his intention, to draw me in somehow. I just beat him to the punch.”

“He’s watching you.”

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“You don’t seem overly concerned.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we both just need to get some rest.”

So they had parted with much unsaid and unresolved between them. She had almost turned back to him as she walked up the stairs. They had been so close. If they hadn’t been interrupted by the police, there was little question as to what would have happened.

She was some combination of disappointed and relieved as she walked into the adjoining bathroom and felt the cool hard tile beneath her feet. The room was a study in the varied uses of white marble—the floor, countertop, and sink were all formed of the beautiful stone. With mirrored walls and bright marquis bulbs, no inch of the room escaped reflection except the steam-room and shower, which were enclosed behind frosted-glass doors that reached from floor to ceiling. The countertop was a pretty clutter of the finest cosmetics and toiletries, expensively packaged soaps and lotions, bath salts, powders, fragrances. Lydia loved the smell, the feel of these things. They were a tiny indulgence she afforded herself, in honor of her mother. Marion, too, had cherished the luxury of a beautiful bathroom, filled with products that pleased the senses and soothed the skin. But Marion had never allowed herself the pleasure of the costly items she saw in magazines. Lydia would have lavished her mother with such things, had Marion lived to share her wealth. So instead she bought them for herself.

The cold water of the shower braced her skin, shocking the last sleepy cobwebs from her head. She lathered herself with lavender soap, at first enduring and then enjoying the frigid water raising goose bumps on her flesh. She washed her hair twice and then conditioned, letting the cold water beat on her back while she let the conditioner sit, making her hair soft. When she emerged, her body glistening, she dried herself with one of the plush black towels that hung on the wall. Then she wrapped herself in it and brushed her teeth.

Jeffrey placed a mug of coffee on her bedside table. He heard the shower and shivered, knowing that it was ice cold. Cold showers for the morning; hot showers at night. He could hear her saying the morning was the beginning of the day, no time for luxury or relaxation—it was time to get moving. He smiled at the thought, but he held a sadness inside of him, mourning the moment that had passed between them last night. He knew that it could not be recaptured, and could already feel her laying distance between them. He let her do it, aware that she would have to come to him. Like a lunar eclipse, that moment could not be forced—only anticipated. He walked from the room and closed the door as Lydia emerged from the bathroom.

The sight of the steaming coffee at the bedside made her want to smile and cry at the same time.

L
ydia and Jeffrey followed behind in the Kompressor as Morrow’s beat-up squad car led the way to the church. High winds whipped sand around the car and rushed loudly through Lydia’s partially opened window, making conversation between them difficult. Not that there was any conversation. The silence between them was like barbed wire. If he tried to get through it, it probably wouldn’t
kill him. But it would hurt like hell. So Jeffrey kept quiet, watching the landscape pass and preparing for the interview ahead.

In Jeffrey’s imagination, the Church of the Holy Name had taken on cathedral-like proportions. Maybe because of the significance it seemed to hold for Lydia. So, he was a bit surprised when they pulled up beside the tiny adobe church, with its simple wood doors, unassuming bell tower, and cross-shaped windows.

“This is it?” he asked.

“This is it,” Lydia answered. She walked up the three small steps and pushed the heavy doors in, followed by Jeffrey and Morrow.

A frail, dark-haired man wearing faded but well-washed and pressed jeans and a white oxford shirt approached them, and Jeffrey was again surprised when Lydia introduced him as Juno. From Lydia’s description he had expected to see Gabriel in flowing robes, ensconced in a heavenly light. As he took the hand Juno offered, Jeffrey was delighted by the blind man’s entirely earthly, rather plain appearance.

As Juno disappeared through a door beside the altar to get Father Luis, Jeffrey, Lydia, and Morrow moved over to the glass case by the church entrance. Laid out on a red-velvet cushion beneath the glass were two leather-bound Bibles, three rosaries, and a hand-carved crucifix. Morrow removed an evidence bag from the pocket of his J. Crew-style barn jacket and held it on top of the case. The crucifix contained in the plastic bag was identical to the one in the case.

“They’re the same,” Lydia said, certain.

“Looks that way,” answered Morrow, nodding.

Lydia’s eyes drifted to the back of the church to the doorway through which Juno had disappeared moments before. Jeffrey noted it was the third time her eyes had followed the path Juno
had taken. She wouldn’t even glance in Jeffrey’s direction and they hadn’t made eye contact all morning. She was moving away again, just as he had accused her of doing last night. Maybe it was always going to be like this with her. Maybe it was just time to forget it, time to move on, sad as the thought made him.

Jeffrey sat down in one of the pews and watched as a man in beige coveralls painstakingly polished the long wooden table on the altar. He seemed to make endless small circles with the cloth in his hand and moved slowly and stiffly, as though he were a robot low on fuel. Every few circles, the man would shuffle a few inches to the side and begin polishing another small section. Maybe sensing that he was being watched, he lifted his eyes and looked at Jeffrey with a blank, unseeing stare. Not blind, but uncomprehending. The man was obviously mentally impaired. Jeffrey smiled but the man looked back down at the table, returning to his circles. An old woman kneeled in the first pew, her head bent. Jeffrey could hear the murmuring of her prayer.

Morrow walked around the church, his footfalls echoing loudly as he looked behind some embroidered wall-hangings, and under the pews. He stepped into the confessional, touching the tattered Bible with a tentative finger.

“Bet you haven’t been inside one of these in a while,” said Lydia from the other side, through the wrought-iron grating, startling him.

“About as long as you,” he shot back, more weakly than he would have liked.

Lydia chuckled. He couldn’t be sure if she was laughing at him but it was a safe bet. He went back to join Jeffrey.

The wood inside the confessional was spotless—meticulously scrubbed and dusted. The cushion on the small bench was old and worn with bits of white stuffing visible beneath the red velvet
cover. Lydia felt uncomfortable, the same feeling she had had in the garden, during her first visit, like somebody’s eyes were on her. She peeked through the grating, but Morrow was gone. She picked up the Bible off a narrow shelf. The leather was smooth and malleable from years of use, and the pages, the edges gilded with gold, made a crisp whisper as she flipped through the book absently. She hadn’t held a Bible since her mother’s funeral. “Lydia,” Jeffrey called.

She walked from the confessional to see Juno and the man who must be Father Luis Alonzo sitting in the final pew. She was introduced to the priest and he rose as he shook her hand.

As Jeffrey told the priest about the recent disappearances and what they had come to suspect, Lydia watched Father Luis’s open, earnest face darken with concern. He leaned slightly forward and began knitting his hands. She could see him searching his mind for the last time he’d seen Harold and Christine, Shawna, or Maria. And in his deep, brown eyes, she saw the flicker of something else. Something she hadn’t expected and which didn’t make sense. Fear.

“Of course I’d noticed their absences. At first I thought nothing of it. It is not uncommon for people to drift away from the church and then return. Then I read in the paper that first Shawna, then Harold and Christine were missing.” He shook his head. “I never connected them to each other. Then Maria, may she rest in peace. Even then I never made the connections.”

“We’ve missed Shawna very much,” he continued quietly. “She was a great help to us. Maria came to confession every Wednesday and to mass every Sunday. Christine and Harold came to Sunday mass sporadically over the years.”

Morrow pulled the crucifix from his pocket and handed it to the priest. “Did you make this, Father?”

The priest inspected it, holding it in a hand that trembled slightly. “Yes, it looks like an older one. Where did you find it?”

“At Ms. Lopez’s apartment. One was found at the homes of each of the other missing persons as well.”

The priest tapped his foot lightly on the floor. It was an unconscious gesture, the slender black leather shoe rapping a staccato on old wood. Lydia and Jeffrey exchanged a glance. “I have to admit, I never imagined any harm had befallen them. Maria, of course—the headlines were shocking. But Shawna, Christine, and Harold were all troubled people. I thought they had just run off.”

“That’s what we all thought,” said Morrow.

“Not all of us,” muttered Lydia. The priest appeared not to have heard her, but Morrow shot her an angry look.

“And it still might turn out, though it’s doubtful, that Shawna, Christine, and Harold have nothing to do with our case,” interjected Jeffrey. “But, Father, if you know anything that could help us, now would be the time to let us know. Anybody any one of them may have mentioned to you. Someone they were afraid of …?” Jeffrey sat down beside the priest, who seemed to be deep in thought.

“Nothing comes to mind,” he said, sighing.

Lydia spoke up for the first time. “Father, it seems obvious, with all of these people being members of your congregation, with the dog’s body that was found here, with the crucifixes that were found in each of the victim’s homes, that this church is somehow tied in. Has anyone said anything to you during confession that may have sounded suspicious or threatening?” She fixed her eyes on him as if she were trying to read his mind.

“Obviously, I would be loath to violate the sanctity of the confessional. But I can tell you that certainly I have heard nothing of the nature you mean.”

“Does the church have any employees other than you and your nephew?”

“No, we have volunteers who care for the church. Some are just parishioners who want to give time to the church, like Shawna. Some do community service here, you know, as punishment for a minor offense of some kind, and some of them come from the school for the mentally challenged.”

“The man who is here today, was he from the school you mentioned?” asked Jeffrey.

“I’m not sure who you mean.”

Jeffrey looked up and saw that the man was gone. The old woman who had been praying had also left unnoticed. “He was polishing the table.”

“We didn’t have anyone in today to do volunteer work, as far as I knew.” He turned to his nephew. “Juno, did you schedule anyone?”

“No, I didn’t. The people from the school are always scheduled because they need to be supervised,” he explained. “They usually come in groups. The volunteer parishioners come and go as they please.”

“Did either of you see the man I saw?” Jeffrey asked Morrow and Lydia. Both shook their heads. “Morrow, can you go take a look out the door?”

“Sure,” he said, rising and walking to the entrance.

“Father, can we get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers of your congregation and volunteers?” Lydia asked.

The priest hesitated. “I don’t think I’m within my rights …”

Morrow returned, overhearing the priest’s reluctance.

“Father, this is a murder investigation. If you would like me to get a warrant, I can do that,” said Morrow, respectfully but with authority.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He rose. “I’ll just get what
I have from my office. Of course, not all of the people who attend mass give their addresses.”

“Of course. What you have will be good enough for now,” Jeffrey answered.

When the priest had left, Morrow turned to Jeffrey. “I didn’t see anyone out there. There are no vehicles except for ours and the church van.”

“I wasn’t aware of anyone else being here today, except for Mrs. Mancher who walks here to pray nearly every day,” said Juno.

“Did you notice any other vehicles when we came in?” Jeffrey asked Lydia and Morrow.

“No, the lot was empty,” Lydia answered, and the chief nodded his agreement.

The priest returned with some xeroxed pages and handed them to Jeffrey.

“Thank you, Father. Lydia, is there anything else you need from Juno and Father Luis at this point?”

“Just one thing. Father, have you noticed that any of your parishioners, or any of your volunteers, drive a green minivan?”

He let out a small laugh. “Well, in fact,
I
drive a green Dodge Caravan.”

All three of them looked at him.

“But it’s been in the shop for the last week, and I’ve been using the church van for all my business. My minivan is an older model and the transmission is slipping,” he said; then added uncomfortably, “It’s a fairly common vehicle.”