He looked out the window to the rain falling on the manicured lawn. Victor must have drawn this, he thought. He turned the page over. On the back was another, more flowery, handwritten note, CENTER OF THE WORLD. Worthy closed the sketchpad and slipped it into his sport coat pocket. He needed to take it with him, but would the VanBruskmans let him?
He heard heavy footsteps coming down the hallway and knew they were Arrol VanBruskman’s. But he was only half right. The father’s angry face shared the doorway with Captain Spicer’s.
“Jeez, Worthy,” Captain Spicer said, as if he didn’t know what else to say.
“I’ll say this for you, Lieutenant,” Arrol VanBruskman said, pushing past him. “You’ve got balls coming into my house after the way you’ve screwed things up.”
He turned on his heel and like a magnet led the two policemen back to the study where his wife sat curled up on the couch, a glass in her hand. Arrol VanBruskman remained on his feet, pacing, while Captain Spicer sat on the other end of the couch. He chewed furiously on his nicotine gum as Mrs. VanBruskman sent a stream of smoke in his direction.
Worthy returned to the chair and waited for Mr. VanBruskman’s opening blast. He understood now the wife’s odd smile. What her husband had “picked up on his way home” had been Spicer.
“Let’s start with your stupid-ass emails, Lieutenant,” the car dealer fumed. “What the hell do I care about some Mexican kid? I sent you out there to find my Ellie.”
“Victor is from New Mexico, not Mexico, darling,” Mrs. VanBruskman corrected.
“I said I don’t give a damn about the kid and that includes where he’s from,” Arrol said, staring at his wife. Mrs. VanBruskman’s smirk didn’t budge as she swirled her drink.
“And here’s my second goddamn problem. You were told to get your ass back here because of new evidence, and now I find out that you’ve been back since yesterday morning. Where the hell have you been?”
“Conducting interviews, ones I should have done before I ever left Detroit. And about Victor Martinez,” Worthy replied patiently, “it was your wife who suggested he could be important. And that turns out—”
“My wife isn’t running this case, Lieutenant,” Arrol VanBruskman blurted out, leaving little doubt as to who was.
“With all due respect, Mr. VanBruskman, I think that’s going a bit too far,” Captain Spicer interjected, his eyes intently studying the weave in the carpet.
“All right, all right. But I’m the one paying for this circus, and by God, if you did work for me, I’d fire your sorry ass.”
Worthy waited a few seconds before speaking. “I was at the college interviewing people who knew your daughter and Victor Martinez. And before you start in on Victor Martinez again,” Worthy said, ignoring his captain’s look of alarm, “I’d like to finish what I was trying to explain. We’ve confirmed that your daughter did run away to find Victor Martinez. We don’t know if she found him, but it’s possible that they’re hiding in some remote house that the boy knows about. New Mexico is a huge—”
“Ah, Chris,” Spicer broke in, his eyes still studying the floor. “There’s some new evidence.”
“Well, will someone tell me what it is?” Worthy shot back.
Arrol VanBruskman walked to stand over Worthy. He started to say something, but instead walked away. “You tell him, Spicer,” he commanded.
“No, let me,” Mrs. VanBruskman said, smiling at Worthy. “Ellie sent us a letter.”
Worthy felt the blood draining from his face. “What?”
“It’s postmarked five days ago, from Santa Fe. Would you call Santa Fe remote, Lieutenant?”
The room was suddenly silent.
“I’d like to see this letter,” Worthy asked in a deadpan voice.
Mrs. VanBruskman looked to her husband, received a nod, and picked up some papers from the end table next to the ashtray.
She’s good, Worthy thought. She could have shown me the letter the minute I arrived, but she didn’t want to spoil her husband’s thunder or give me a chance to collect my thoughts. She handed the letter to Spicer, who rose and carried it dutifully across the room to Worthy.
As if in a fog, Worthy studied the crumpled and stained envelope before reading the one line on the thin sheet of paper. I’ll be okay unless you try to find me. Goodbye forever, Ellie.
“When did you say you got this?” Worthy asked, his eyes still on the single page.
Arrol VanBruskman had his back to him, and it was his wife who replied. “It arrived three days ago.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Worthy said, leaning forward.
Captain Spicer spoke in a rush, as if to cut off Arrol VanBruskman. “Nor to any of us, Chris. How did she manage to send this from Santa Fe when you say there’s been no trace of her?”
Worthy turned the paper over in his hand. “You can verify the handwriting?”
“Goddammit, we know what our daughter’s handwriting looks like,” Arrol said.
“You’re not going to like my first impression,” Worthy continued. “This looks like something she wrote when she first ran off, not five days—”
Arrol VanBruskman wheeled about, his face beet-red. “Damn it all to hell! Our Ellie walked to a mailbox in broad daylight five days ago or into a post office, with her picture probably plastered all over the fucking place, and she sent it!”
“Arrol, please,” Mrs. VanBruskman interrupted, tapping a new cigarette on the box. Spicer cleared his throat, and the VanBruskmans turned toward him as if expecting some wisdom. Worthy knew better. He continued to inspect the crumpled envelope, especially the odd dusty stains along one edge.
“If your daughter’s medical condition is as serious as you’ve told me, she couldn’t have sent this letter—not five days ago, anyway.”
“So help me God, if you start trying to tell us Victor Martinez sent this, or we need to run some fancy checks on what kind of paper it’s on, I’ll have your badge,” Mr. VanBruskman fumed. “Find our daughter. Our daughter, Lieutenant, not goddamn Victor! Can’t you see she’s laughing at us?”
Worthy looked up from the letter to study the man. He was breathing heavily, his fists clenched. So that is it? Worthy thought. They aren’t worried about their daughter, but angry at her. She’s gotten free of them. He didn’t expect Spicer to see the point. The captain was only here to do what he always did—to smooth things over with the public.
“Did the letter come this way, with all these stains and creases on it?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. VanBruskman replied, as if offended at his insinuation. “But you know how the mail service is these days. And who knows what care they take in New Mexico.”
Worthy turned toward Captain Spicer. “I assume it’s been checked for fingerprints.”
“The only clear prints were Mrs. VanBruskman’s.”
Worthy turned the envelope over in his hand again. “It looks so old, like it’s been lying around some place.”
“We’re not going to sit here and listen to your lame excuses,” Arrol VanBruskman said from across the room. “You’ve had a week on my dollar, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the pool at the hotel. Against my better judgment, your captain has gotten me to pay for two more. But if you don’t find something by then, your free lunch is over. Shit. First the police out there fail me, and now you. I could have hired any private detective I wanted, but they said you were better. Ha!” The car dealer stomped from the room, causing his wife’s ashtray to tumble to the floor.
Mrs. VanBruskman turned and gave Worthy her biggest smile. “When will you fly back, Lieutenant?”
“Tomorrow,” he replied, standing to put on his coat. He hoped no one would ask why he wasn’t leaving for the airport right then. He had no desire to explain why he needed to see his own daughter before flying back to look for theirs.
Chapter Twelve
Father Fortis stared at Father Linus, who was standing in his doorway. “We’re going to the morada now? You said n
ext week.”
Father Linus closed the door behind him. “I need to warn the Brotherhood,” he whispered. “As you just said, that nosy lieutenant knows too much.”
“How could I hear anything Lieutenant Choi was saying with you spitting like a rattlesnake? You need to remember your heart.”
Father Linus glared angrily at Father Fortis. “Who told you about my heart?”
“It doesn’t matter. I say it for your own good. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“Nonsense. I feel fine. And about that Lieutenant Choi … you give him too much credit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Why? Because he’s quiet?” Father Fortis asked. “Listen to me, Linus. Choi didn’t miss a thing that happened in that room, especially your tantrum. You might as well have worn a Penitente T-shirt.”
“My friends are waiting at the morada,” the old monk replied, glancing at his watch. “Are you coming or not?”
“The abbot has asked me to meet with Father Bernard.”
“Do that later. Bernard is a good man—and for an Anglo, no enemy of the Brotherhood—but what he can tell you about the murder is small potatoes compared to what you’ll find out if you come with me.”
“Won’t our absence be noticed?” Father Fortis asked.
“Noticed? Of course it will be noticed. You can count on Brother Elias for that. But on the form, I’ve checked us out to Santa Fe. I said we were going in for our research. You are on sabbatical, aren’t you?”
“Not that I can see,” Father Fortis replied.
“It isn’t a complete lie. We’ll talk about our research on the way,” the old monk promised.
But they didn’t talk about Roman chant, not for the entire forty-five minutes that it took to drive to a small adobe building on the outskirts of Mora.
As the Jeep turned in behind the building, Father Fortis caught a glimpse of a life-sized statue of Jesus kneeling in prayer by a rock. Jesus in Gethsemane, he thought, noticing the bright red paint flowing from Christ’s brow.
Three men appeared from the doorway of the building, all three versions of one another—old, wearing faded long-sleeved plaid shirts and straw cowboy hats, and walking with their eyes fixed on the ground. The white mustache on the man in the middle fell like a waterfall over his mouth.
Without a word, Linus shook the hand of each before embracing the last man. In the flood of Spanish that passed among the four, Father Fortis heard his name mentioned. One of the men, who had a milk-white cataract in his left eye, stared at Father Fortis’s pectoral cross and suddenly bent down to kiss it. The others followed suit.
Linus spoke little, his usual bluster gone, as if he considered himself outranked by the leathery-faced men. After a pause in the conversation, the man with the cataract led the guests toward the morada.
“I told them they could trust you,” Linus whispered. “I hope I’m right.”
Father Fortis stepped into a dark room, expecting to see something like the retreat house where Sister Anna’s body was found. But when one of the other men lit a lantern, he found himself in a smaller version of El Sanctuario de Chimayó. A wooden railing set off an altar area where a plain white table held a jumble of statues. Two dominated in size, one of the Virgin Mary with her arms outstretched in grief, painted tears flooding her face, the other a bleeding and bound Christ in a red robe, his head bowed. The hair beneath his thorny crown looked real, as did the drops of blood that angled down the face, onto his robe and hands.
Father Linus crossed himself and bowed to the altar before moving back toward Father Fortis.
“Being allowed to see this is a rare honor,” he whispered.
The two sat on the front bench while the old man with the cataract returned from behind the altar with a large manila envelope. His gnarled hands shook as he fumbled with the clasp.
“Their English is poor, Nicholas, so I’ll be translating,” Father Linus said.
With a slight nod, Linus accepted a stack of photos and papers before addressing one of the other men. The man moved to one of the small windows set at the top of the wall and pulled back the curtain. A glimmer of light lifted the gloom of the place and revealed clouds of dust still settling after their intrusion. Father Fortis noted that the floor was made of uneven wooden planks, while the walls were bare adobe except for the stations of the cross and a few tin crucifixes. From the ceiling’s wooden beams hung a simple two-armed candelabra in the shape of an X. Wax pooled on the floor, evidence of fat white candles recently being burned.
“Nicholas,” Father Linus said, “I believe these pictures will prove that Sister Anna’s killer couldn’t possibly have been one of us.” He still gripped the papers tightly in his hand.
The silence of the three men bore down upon Father Fortis like a suffocating blanket. He took a deep breath and waited.
“These first photos show what this morada looked like less than a year ago,” Linus explained.
The first photo revealed the room they were in, spray paint covering the walls. Two others showed the altar in shambles. The saints were smashed on the floor, while the statue of the Virgin Mary was decapitated.
Father Linus studied the other photos in his hand, pointing to some pencil marks on the back side of one as he spoke to the others in Spanish.
“Sì sì,” he said after listening to the leader’s explanation. “They tell me these other photos are of two old moradas from up in Colorado. The vandalism up there is more recent, from just two months ago. Unfortunately, our brothers and sisters can’t afford the repairs yet. Look at them closely, Nicholas.”
Father Fortis felt all eyes on him as he scanned through the new photos.
“The writing on the walls … does it mean the same thing?”
“No, some are pentacles, satanic markings. The police told us that gangs often leave them. It shows they’re tough guys. But we’re sure no gang did this.”
“Why?”
“Look at the photos again, Nicholas.”
“What am I looking for?” he asked. “Did the vandals steal the same sort of things, like santos?”
One of the men whispered to the elder. Father Linus heard him out before speaking.
“The answer is yes and no. Something important was taken from one of the moradas up in Colorado.”
“So, two months ago,” Father Fortis figured.
Father Linus spoke rapidly to the oldest man, who nodded back. Turning to Father Fortis, he said, “I have permission to tell you this. Santos aren’t the only type of Penitente art. They can be bought in forty shops in Santa Fe alone. No, what these people took from the morada in Colorado was something different, something much rarer. Have you ever heard of a death cart, Nicholas?”
Father Fortis noticed the buzzing between the three men. “Are you talking about something used at funerals?”
“Not just any funeral. One funeral. It’s used in our Good Friday processions.”
Father Fortis considered the explanation. “Ah, I think I understand. Orthodox in Greece process the icon of the dead Christ through their villages on that day.”
“But that’s not how we use this cart, Nicholas. It doesn’t carry Christ. It carries Death itself. Ah, I see that puzzles you. Our cart carries a skeleton, but rest assured, it is only a wooden one.”
“Oh. Then you’re mocking death on Good Friday,” Father Fortis surmised. “Yes, I see the symbolism.”
“It’s our way of remembering that our Lord Himself was frightened by death, just as we are. But he conquered death for us.”
“And you say this cart was stolen from one of the moradas in Colorado?”
A new tension in the room suggested to Father Fortis that his English had been understood.
“Yes. It was a great loss,” Father Linus replied. “Especially with santeros being so very rare.”
“Santeros?”
“Trained woodcarvers, Nicholas. Fewer and fewer continue the old ways.”
Father Fortis restudied
the photos in his hand. “Tell me about the roof. How was this hole made?”
Father Linus posed the question in Spanish to the older man. “It must have been done with a sledgehammer. We believe it made an opening for a ladder. Then they used the sledgehammer to destroy the wooden beams. My brothers don’t think a gang did this damage,” Linus explained. “We know gangs have vandalized our moradas. That’s an old problem. But whoever did this wanted to make sure no one would ever use this place again.”
“They were wrong,” the third man declared, his voice strong and clear.
Father Fortis felt the pride of these men. They were too defensive about the Brotherhood to be objective, he thought.
“With respect, I don’t see why that necessarily rules out a gang,” he said.
“Why would gangs go to the trouble of removing their tire tracks? Gangs like to advertise their presence. But there is more, much more, you need to understand.” Father Linus handed him another two photos. “Study these, please. Especially the floors and the walls.”
Father Fortis compared the photos. The floors were littered with pieces of statues of saints—arms and heads broken off the bodies. Not one seemed to have survived the attack intact. Littering the floors were also layers of shredded paper, some as small as confetti. On the wall in each photo was a plain cross.
“I see what you mean,” Father Fortis said. “Sister Anna’s body was covered with bits of paper like this, wasn’t it?”
Father Linus’s head bobbed excitedly. “Think how long it would take even a group of people to tear paper into pieces that small and scatter them all around. Do gangs do that? No. Now, Nicholas, what do you notice on the walls?”
“The crosses … but why would they leave them on the wall after destroying everything else?” In the background, the whispers of the three men grew louder.
“Look again, and you’ll see that the crosses aren’t exactly unmarked,” Father Linus said.
Father Fortis held the photos up to the meager light. On the floor below each of the crosses was the broken-off figure of the crucified Christ.
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