Angel Fire (27 page)

“Greg,” she called, “it’s Lydia Strong.”

When there was no answer, she pushed the door open. Stepping inside, Lydia felt the walls for a light switch, which she couldn’t find. So they made their way in the dim light coming in from a high, dirty window above the door. They felt their way along the empty shell of a car up on cinderblocks, toward the office where a desk lamp glowed, Lydia in front and Jeffrey at her back.

“Greg,” she called again. This time she was answered by a low moan.

They moved faster toward the sound and found Greg on the floor of the office semiconscious, his head lying in a pool of blood. She bent down to him as Jeffrey dialed 911.

Lydia grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse and as she did, saw a number written on his arm. “What is this?”

“What?” asked Jeff, as he hung up with the operator. He bent down and inspected Greg’s arm. “It’s a VIN number.”

“Why would he have written this on his arm?”

“Maybe he didn’t have any paper?”

She shot him a look, putting her hand to Greg’s forehead. “Call the number in to Jacob Hanley in New York. You’ll probably get it faster.”

Jeffrey looked at his watch. “Jacob’s probably not even in yet. I think I’ll call Craig.”

Lydia always called Craig Keaton “the Brain” behind his back. He stood a full head taller than Jeffrey but looked as thin as one of Jeffrey’s thighs. Clad forever in huge baggy jeans, a white T-shirt under a flannel shirt, and a pair of Doc Martens, his pockets were always full of electronic devices … cell phone, pager, Palm Pilot, all manner of thin black beeping, ringing toys. A pair of round wire spectacles, nearly hidden by a shock of bleached-blond hair, framed blue-green eyes. Craig called himself a cybernavigator, though his title at Jeffrey’s firm was Information Specialist. He specialized in knowledge of all computer research tools and was, before being recruited for Mark, Hanley and Striker, an infamous hacker wanted by the FBI. He was eighteen when he was arrested and could have faced more than a little time in federal prison, but luckily for him, Jacob Hanley was his uncle. All former FBI agents with more connections between them than a motherboard, Mark, Hanley and Striker were able to get Craig a deal. He worked for them, he kept his act together, and he reported to a probation officer for the next three years.

Now, more or less plugged in to the Internet and the Bureau systems 24/7, more or less legally, Craig could gather almost any piece of information needed at any time of the day or night. Lydia wondered when he slept, and joked that one day Jeffrey would go to Craig’s basement office and find that he had become a disembodied voice, sucked into the computers like some character in a William Gibson novel.

“I’ll call him,” Lydia said.

“Because he has a crush on you and you think that will make him work faster.”

“Exactly.”

As Lydia dialed, Jeffrey knelt down next to Greg, putting a hand on his shoulder. She heard him say, “You’re gonna be all right, buddy, hang in there.” She hoped he was right.

“Hi, Lydia. How’s it going?” answered Craig, seeing her number on his Caller ID box. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She found his attempt to be suave incredibly cute.

“Hey, Craig,” she said, as sweetly as she could. “I need you to work some magic for me—yesterday.”

“You got it. What’s up?”

“I need a name and address on the following VIN number: VZN61LG-PSEA.”

“That’s it?” He sounded a little disappointed. But she heard the soft clatter of his keyboard. “Let’s see. DMV systems are always a little slow.”

Lydia thought she was going to have a brain aneurysm waiting for him to come back to her with the information. She heard the wail of approaching sirens.

“Okay,” he said, after less than a minute, though it seemed to Lydia like an hour. “We’ve got a 1995 Dodge Caravan registered to Bernard Hugo at 1412 Mission Lane in Angel Fire, New Mexico.”

The corners of her mouth turned up in a sad, tight smile of recognition. She had to assume that Bernard Hugo was Robbie’s father and that he hadn’t gone to Colorado after all. “Craig, you are the best. I am taking you on a drinking binge as soon as I get back to New York.”

“Cool. When are you in town?”

Paramedics came in through the garage door, and Jeffrey moved away from Greg as they approached.

“Soon, honey. I have to run, Craig. You’re the best.”

“ ’Bye, Lydia.”

“You’ll break his heart,” said Jeffrey.

“Let’s go,” she answered.

“Shouldn’t we call Morrow?”

“No. Fuck that guy.”

“We should call,” Jeffrey said as they got in the car, Lydia in the driver’s seat. He dialed the number.

“The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not available,”
said the recorded message.

T
here was time to turn around and do this the right way. All he had to do was to pick up his cell phone and make a call. Chief Morrow sat in his prowler and looked at the front door of the house. He could tell it was empty. Empty houses gave off an aura of abandonment and most cops could see it. At least they hoped they could.

He should have called Jeffrey Mark by now. He should have at least brought backup. But it was just a hunch. He was just checking up on a hunch. If it was nothing, then it was nothing. If it was something, well then, either he would be dead or he would be the hero cop who saved the day. He was banking on the latter.

Lying in bed this morning, he had finally remembered Bernard Hugo. He remembered Hugo’s grief. After Robbie Hugo had died, the church and the community had rallied around them in a way Morrow remembered as remarkable. And at the gathering at the Hugo home after Robbie’s funeral, which Morrow had attended in his official capacity, the house had been filled with people. Robbie’s mother Jennifer had been strong, hosting her guests with grace and smiling bravely. Bernard Hugo had sat in a corner staring blankly out the window, his face ashen and tight, eyes glazed. Morrow remembered his face as the very embodiment of grief.

There had been whispers, he remembered now as it all came
back, about Bernard’s mental illness and whether he could bear up under the strain of grief. Simon Morrow guessed that he hadn’t been able to. He wondered what he would find inside. He hefted himself out of the car and walked to the front door. He noted that the lawn was overgrown and the house needed a coat of paint. When he knocked, the door pushed open. Morrow stepped inside. From the door he could see the living room and the kitchen. A hallway leading to the bedrooms was to his left.

“Bernard Hugo,” he called. “Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The house answered with silence and he heard his voice echo lightly in the nearly empty room. Most of the furniture he remembered was gone. There was just a television, a recliner, a rickety old card table. He took another step inside and pulled out his gun.

The odor assailed him. Garbage, beer, general filth, and something else. Some other odor lingered, mingling with the others. He pulled a surgical glove from his pocket and deftly slid it on his left hand while still holding his weapon with his right. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. The door had pushed open, so he felt it was within his rights to enter. He wouldn’t touch anything. Just look around. If he found anything, he’d call it in right away. At least he would be the first on the scene.

Keeping his back to the wall, he walked down the hallway and looked in the master bedroom, where a bed was the only piece of furniture. The bed was bare except for a crumpled-up beige-and-green top sheet. There was little else to see except a closet that stood open where a few items of clothing were sloppily hung on wire hangers and old shoes cluttered the rack that hung on the door.

The door across the hall was closed and Morrow tried to push it open with his foot, keeping his back to the opposite wall, but he couldn’t. So he moved to the right of the doorjamb, turned
the knob, and pushed the door open fast. It banged against the wall inside the room. He entered gun-first. And when he stood in the doorway, he saw what he had come for. And he wasn’t sure whether to whoop with joy or be ill.

As he slid his cell phone from the inside lapel pocket of his suit jacket, he heard cars pull up the gravel driveway. From the window he could see Jeffrey Mark and Lydia Strong walk up to the door. He walked down the hallway to greet them.

“Chief, what are you doing here?” Jeffrey asked.

“I was following up on a hunch that proved to be right,” he answered, trying not to seem smug. “What are you doing here?”

“We got a tip on a vehicle and it led us here. Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“I wasn’t sure there was anything,” he answered. “I came here to ask some questions of this guy Bernard Hugo. I just remembered he was working as a caretaker at the church on and off for the last few months.”

“Is he here?”

“No.”

“But you came in here without a warrant? Jesus.”

“Relax. I didn’t touch anything.”

“That’s not the fucking point,” shot Jeffrey. “If anybody finds out you were here, you’ll lose anything you’ve found in court and this guy will walk. You wanted to handle this without the FBI, and then you pull a stunt like this that could put your whole case in the toilet. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about stopping a guy who has probably killed three, maybe four people, Mr. Mark. Watch your tone. I’m not a rookie. The door was open and there was a notable stench. I had probable cause to enter.”

Jeffrey stared at Chief Morrow as the four police officers
around him shifted uncomfortably and looked away. He reined in his anger at Morrow’s carelessness. And when he spoke again, his voice was more restrained. “Fine. It’s your case, Chief. Let’s see what you got.”

Simon Morrow was moved to silence by rage as he walked them to evidence he had found.

“Holy shit,” said Jeffrey, as he entered the room.

If insanity had a bedroom, this would have been it. The metal gurney where Bernard Hugo had removed the hearts of his victims was scrubbed clean and stood in the middle of a room that looked to have been a baby’s nursery. Beside it was a tray of surgical implements—scalpel, bone saw, and other horrible metal tools Jeffrey couldn’t name but hoped would never be put to use on his body. Powder-blue curtains hung on the window frame, and a wallpaper border with ducks and balloons could still be seen edging the ceiling. The rest of the wall was covered, however, with newspaper articles and photographs. The maniac collage that papered the walls included images of Lydia from the media, articles written about her and by her, covers from her books, articles about Juno, about the death of Robbie Hugo, baby pictures, some of the very articles that Lydia had clipped from the newspaper at the beginning of her interest in this case. Over it all, the rantings of a demented mind were scrawled in blood. Jeffrey saw immediately the message they had found on Lydia’s bedroom mirror among the rest of the deadly graffiti, including:
Sinners must die … I am God’s warrior and evildoers shall feel my wrath.… She will bring the message of God
.

“Holy shit,” Lydia said as she walked in the door.

“His name is Bernard Hugo,” said Chief Morrow, “and he’s been a volunteer caretaker on and off at the church for the last six months. He used to be an orderly at the hospital, but after his son
died and his wife left him, he lost it, stopped going to work, got fired.”

“I know. His son died after a failed heart transplant,” said Lydia; “Juno visited him, supposedly attempted to heal him. And the boy died hours later.”

Morrow thought on it a second. “You’re right. I had forgotten about that.”

Lydia wanted to jump on him.
How could he have not made these connections earlier?
But she knew it wasn’t really fair. The whole thing was so insane.

“The guy doesn’t even have a speeding ticket, you know?” Morrow said, as if reading her mind. “There had always been rumors about him, according to my wife. Apparently he had been on track to become a surgeon years ago. But he’d had some kind of mental breakdown. He was on so much medication that he couldn’t even become a nurse after that. So he settled for being an orderly at St. Vincent’s Hospital.

“I remember when the kid died. My wife and I went to pay our respects and he was destroyed, I mean he could barely function. Then I heard a couple of months later from my wife that his wife had left him, went back to her family in Colorado. Then he lost his job. I wondered how he would survive but then I heard that he was doing some volunteer work at the Church of the Holy Name and I figured he’d found God.”

“But maybe he was just looking for victims,” said Jeffrey.

“Or both,” said Lydia. “I think we have some more gardening to do.”

J
uno sat alone in the back pew of the church. His hands were neatly folded in his lap and his head hung low. The glow around
him that Lydia had always perceived, seemed dim and she was not sure how to approach him. He was fragile and fading like a specter. She stood watching him, listening to the police shuffling around her, speaking in low voices as though mass were in session.

There was a horrific amount of blood splattered on the walls that contained the garden, across the flowers, and even on the face of the Virgin. A rosary lay near the door. Lydia didn’t hold out much hope for Father Luis. She had asked the police to hold off on digging up the garden for a few minutes, until she talked to Juno. And now she stood wondering how she would begin, his fear radiating off him like a visible aura. She approached him slowly.

Juno heard Lydia’s footfalls and sensed her hesitation. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he already knew. But his voice failed him and he sat silent and waiting. She could not know that he had lost not only his uncle this day, the man who raised him, but his mother and father as well.

Sitting in the last pew, praying, Juno had become invisible to the police. They’d rushed into the church just minutes after his call. He heard them run through the living area behind the church and then move out to the garden, where, he noted, the rushing ended and voices became hushed. He could only imagine what they found there, for no one had told him. So he waited. Whispered phrases floated to him on the wind that blew in from the open door; phrases like “blood splatter,” “handprint,” “blood-soaked cloth.”