They’re just like the one that Victor was nailed to, Father Fortis thought with a shudder. Outside, the sun was descending behind the trees, and the cool breeze wafting in through the doorway rattled one of the window shutters. Father Fortis wondered how Father Bernard had found the envelope without the aid of a flashlight.
A quick search of the place revealed nothing more. “We can come back later if we need to,” Sera suggested. “Let’s get to Alamosa and see who’s staying in Room 16.”
During the forty-five minute ride, and now, as they drove down Alamosa’s main street of bars, none of them was very talkative. The neon sign of Souls’ Harbor Mission blinked on and off at the end of a garbage-strewn side street.
As the three walked from the van toward the mission, Father Fortis asked, “Father Bernard, do you know this place?”
Father Bernard stopped to do a couple of knee bends before replying, “If this is the same place, it’s a soup kitchen and flophouse run by an evangelical group. I think I remember the sign.”
As they entered, Father Fortis heard a pump organ laboring in the back, leading a few male voices through a chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves.”
An old man, his red hair slicked back with oil, looked up from the reception desk.
“Welcome, brothers. Oh, sorry, ma’am. Women can’t stay here.”
Sera showed her ID and asked for the mission’s registration records. Without hesitation, as if he’d done the same for police before, the old man reached down and handed a large book across the counter.
“Please don’t take it,” he said. “You see, we get paid per person. If we don’t show the names, the churches don’t believe us.”
Sera reassured him as the three gathered around the book. Sera’s finger ran down the page and rested on Room 16. The name Eladio Moldonado was printed next to it.
“Do you know if Mr. Moldonado is in?” Sera asked.
“He should be,” the old man replied. “We eat in twenty minutes.”
“Moldonado,” Father Bernard muttered. “I think I remember that name. I could be wrong, but I think he worked for my parish.”
“Worked for you?” Father Fortis asked.
“Garden work.”
Sera turned back in the book until she found those from the previous February and March. She scanned down one until her finger stopped on a name.
“Look at this.”
Father Fortis looked over her shoulder. There on the page was Victor Martinez’s name. On the left margin were the dates February 13 through 15.
“Looks like he was here for St. Valentine’s Day,” the man behind the countered offered. “He must not have had a girlfriend.”
After returning the book, Sera led the two priests down a hall reeking of disinfectant. Some of the doors they passed were no more than panels of plywood, but the door of Room 16 was solid, its varnish bubbled from age. Sera knocked, ID in hand.
The door was opened by a bleary-eyed, barefoot man who squinted at the offered badge. It was impossible to tell if he were Indian or Hispanic, thirty or fifty years old.
Father Fortis had the odd feeling he’d seen this man before, but where? Where had he been but at the monastery or at the airport?
Father Bernard stepped forward. “Eladio, is that you? It’s been a long time.”
The man shaded his eyes as from the sun to look up at the imposing monk. “Bernardo?” the man asked, taking a step back into his room.
Father Fortis peeked into the room, expecting to see the normal hovel of a flophouse room. To his amazement, the bed was neatly made with an open suitcase on top, as if Mr. Maldonado had been packing to leave. On a chair a pair of sandals waited, as did a serape with an eagle design. Above the bed hung a plaster plaque of praying hands.
That serape, Father Fortis thought, I know that serape. Slowly, the memory of his first day in New Mexico returned. The stop at the general store in Truchas to pick up some dental floss and mints, the derelict in a dirty serape who’d grabbed at his pectoral cross and muttered incoherently about the world coming to an end. “You’re not my father,” the derelict had said. That man had been Eladio Moldonado.
“Bernardo?” the derelict whispered, his voice trembling. He stared at the monk as if seeing a ghost. “I never thought it would be you who’d bring them to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The afternoon sun had already cooked the steering wheel by the time Worthy finally pulled away from St. Mary’s. It had been a frustrating hour. First, he’d failed to reach Sera at the police station, and then he’d failed to locate Father Fortis. It wasn’t until he’d run into Brother Elias in the monastery library that he was given another piece of the puzzle to ponder. Father Fortis and Father Bernard had both left in the company of a policewoman for two to three days. Up to Colorado, the monk confided.
What in the world is going on? Worthy thought. So much for communication.
After a brief stop at St. Claire’s Home for Girls in Albuquerque—the first on his list and a miss on Ellie, as he expected—he’d found himself stalled in the rush hour traffic out of the city. Heading south on Interstate 25 in the late afternoon light, he hunched forward in the seat, his back tense, as if he could urge the car to move faster.
“Relax, relax,” he ordered himself. He glanced down to the well by the shift lever, where Sera had left a tube of lipstick. He leaned his wounded arm on the steering wheel and with the other opened the padded lid of the center console. Beneath tapes of Mexican music, his fingers found a piece of jewelry. He lifted the turquoise ring out and marveled for a moment at its beauty. It was exactly the type of ring that Susan would have loved. He turned the ring over and managed to read the inscription. He didn’t need Spanish to understand the two names, Freddie and Sera, followed by the word amor. Feeling guilt with a touch of longing, he returned the ring to the box. I hope their love, their amor, lasts, he thought.
He refocused on the freeway, surprised at that time of day to see a cool mirage, a shimmering lake, still dancing on the road’s horizon. He wondered what was waiting for him at the end of the road. He accelerated and aimed for the mirage ahead, as if desire alone were enough to make Ellie VanBruskman appear.
It was nearly three in the morning, nine hours later, when he cut the engine in Douglas, Arizona, and looked across the street at the last stop on his list. The motor pinged as if it, too, couldn’t quite believe they’d finally reached the end. The ten o’clock stop at the two houses in Las Cruces had been repetitions of the first, though there had been a flicker of hope in Deming when an old nun thought she recognized Ellie’s photograph. It turned out she had confused her with a girl from Mexico who’d given birth three months before.
He struggled out of the car, resting against it a moment to massage his sore shoulder. In the southern desert air, still hot despite the late hour, he could hear the pulsing sounds of insects.
For the past three hours, from Deming to Douglas, the certainty that he’d felt at Chimayó about finding Ellie VanBruskman’s trail had nearly evaporated. Part of him suspected that he’d tricked himself at the church, while another part of him imagined Ellie coming this way, but instead of stopping, continuing on into Mexico. He pictured her as a bunch of bones in the desert, never to be recovered.
The porch light of the ranch-style home illuminated the now familiar sign: St. Claire’s Home for Girls. He paused on the sidewalk in front of the house. This is my last hope, he thought. At the door, he squinted at the small print on the sign, hand-painted in two languages, asking anyone arriving after nine in the evening to knock softly.
Through the gauze curtain, he could see a lighted desk with a crucifix above it. He took a deep breath and knocked softly, reaching with his good hand for Ellie’s picture. He was gazing at the timid, overgrown child with the blank stare for the fifth time that day when a sudden gust of wind off the desert lifted the photo from his hand and sent it drifting back toward the car. He bent down to retrieve it just as the door opened
behind him. He stood, expecting to see yet another nun, but gazed instead into the face of Ellie VanBruskman.
Eladio Moldonado was a puzzle to Father Fortis. The man paced his neat room one moment, then sat by his suitcase the next as if awaiting orders.
“Eladio could work wonders with tomatoes and squash. Peppers, too,” Father Bernard said.
As the monk spoke, Father Fortis noticed the eyes of the derelict study the three of them, one at a time. Eladio’s attention finally rested on Father Fortis’s pectoral cross. He approached the priest as he had in Truchas and licked his lips as he examined it.
“Are you still gardening, Eladio?” Father Bernard asked.
The man didn’t reply as he continued to finger the cross.
“I said, what are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Waiting,” Eladio said, returning to the bed. “I’m waiting.”
Father Bernard leaned against the wall. “So it appears. For what?”
The man’s face flirted with a smile. “Just waiting. Same as you.” He rubbed the top of his suitcase as he looked again toward Father Fortis’s cross.
Sera handed a picture of Victor Martinez to him. “Do you remember this boy? He stayed here last winter.”
Eladio looked at the picture, then up at Father Bernard.
“He’s not here. He’s gone.”
“We know that,” Sera replied.
“That boy was eager. Was I eager when I was young, Bernardo?” Before the monk could answer, Eladio turned toward Sera and said, “You can meet him.”
“Mr. Moldonado, we know that’s not possible.”
“Not the boy,” the derelict hissed. “Him.”
“Who’s that?” Sera asked.
“Phinehas. He helped the boy find his way.”
“Find his way?”
“Who knows the ways of God?” Eladio asked.
The derelict caught Father Fortis’s eye. “I see you looking around my room. The boy didn’t stay with me. No, no. But Phinehas fed him. Gave him a place to live. He sent him on his way.”
“Did this man travel with Victor?” Sera asked.
“No. I told you. He sent him on his way.”
Victor’s angel? Father Fortis wondered. Whoever Phinehas was, he’d have to be more helpful than Eladio. The derelict was making no more sense than he had that day in Truchas.
“Buy me supper and a drink—one drink, I promise—and I’ll take you to see him tomorrow.”
“Aren’t they going to have supper here?” Father Bernard asked.
“I said food, not slop and coffee,” Eladio said, continuing to rub the top of his suitcase.
“What do you have in the suitcase?” Sera asked.
The bizarre smile appeared again as Eladio looked directly at Father Bernard. “Just my secrets.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Worthy stared at Ellie VanBruskman in the doorway. Ellie, in turn, stared at her photo in the policeman’s hand. Gradually, as the blood drained from his temples, Worthy understood how she’d managed to avoid being noticed. Ellie’s hair was not only black, but cut short, nun-like, and the black-framed glasses added five years to her appearance. There were few similarities between the girl in front of him and the photo, aside from the panic in the eyes.
Ellie leaned unsteadily on the door before holding it open and motioning him to enter. How long had she been expecting—no, dreading—this moment? He reached for his identification, his hand shaking as he held it out to her. He was struck with her lips, how red and cracked they were.
Ellie took off her glasses and answered his unspoken question. “People here know me as Maria Sanchez, a volunteer from Florida. I told them my purse was stolen on the bus from Texas.”
She led him to a couch in a lounge area. Large cactus plants guarded the corners of the room, while a picture of Jesus with children gazed down on them from over the vinyl-covered couch.
Worthy sat down heavily, bone weary. Over three weeks of searching in New Mexico and being harangued by the VanBruskmans back in Detroit had led to this moment, and yet he didn’t know what to say. Was it simply that his line of work usually led him to find dead people, or something else?
“Do you have anything you’d like to ask me?” he began.
Ellie sat down at the other end of the couch and folded her legs beneath her. She looked out the window toward the street for a moment before turning toward Worthy.
She’s as tired as I am, he thought.
“Can I get a pillow for your arm?” she asked. “It looks sore.”
She started to rise, then fell back on the couch as if she might faint. When he moved toward her, she held out a hand. “I’m fine. Really, I am. Just tired.”
Worthy knew she wasn’t fine. She was too thin, as if she’d gone for days without food.
“Ellie—or should I call you Maria?—you don’t look so hot.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “Even though I knew someone would come eventually, seeing you is a shock.” She closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her chapped lips. “Did she let you see my room?”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Did you find the unicorns in my desk?”
He nodded again. “I thought maybe you used them for babysitting.”
“No, I never did. You see, the unicorns were never my idea. She bought them for me, one after each of my setbacks. It started when I was ten. But even when I was hospitalized last year, she’d bring more in to show me. So you’ll understand why I didn’t bring them out here with me.”
She put her head between her knees.
“Ellie, I need to get you to a hospital.”
“This isn’t fair,” she moaned. “I was doing so well. I am fine. Really, I am. Or I was until I saw Victor’s picture on the news.”
“Are you out of medication?”
“No, I haven’t touched the pills since I left the group.”
Worthy was stunned. “Why not?”
Ellie looked up. “Because I’m fine! I know what it feels like to be depressed, and this isn’t that. I just haven’t been able to keep anything down since I heard about Victor. He was so scared, and then … and then to die that way ….”
“You still need medical attention,” Worthy insisted. “You have to be dehydrated at the very least. Hasn’t anyone said anything about how you look?”
Ellie put her head between her knees again. “Sister Mary Grace did yesterday. She asked if something was wrong, said she’d take me to the clinic. But I can’t do that. They’ll want identification, though maybe now it doesn’t matter.” She groaned again. “I can’t wait to see how many unicorns I get this time.”
Worthy remembered Dr. Cartwright’s wish, that against all odds he’d find Ellie alive and doing fine on her own. Well, he’d found her alive, though hardly doing fine. And he’d been sent to New Mexico for one reason—to bring her back. Did he have another choice?
“You don’t know me, Ellie, and you have no reason to trust me, but I want you to know I’ve talked to Dr. Cartwright. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to go back there to them.”
Ellie looked up. “I thought you were working for my parents. And anyway, they fired Dr. Cartwright. So if you’re trying to trick me, don’t bother. You and I both know she can’t stop anything.”
The girl’s face was turning paler by the minute.
“Will you let me take you to the emergency room?” he asked.
“But don’t you see? I’ll have to give them my name. I always knew that the first thing my parents would do, given my medical history, would be to alert all the hospitals out here. That means that once they type my real name into the computer, it’s all over.” Tears began to stream down her face. “Honestly, I’m not depressed,” she pleaded. “I swear it on my soul.”
Worthy assumed that if he ever found Ellie, his problem would be solved. Now here he was at three o’clock in the m
orning facing another decision. “I’m not saying you are depressed,” he said wearily, “but we won’t know what you need until you get some treatment. So let me offer a trade. We’ll go to the emergency room, tell them you lost your ID on the bus, and—”
With her head down, Ellie moaned again. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “That won’t work.”
It was a tone Worthy remembered, one that he’d heard from Allyson as recently as a week before. “Then we’ll do it this way,” he said. “We’ll say you’re my daughter. You lost your ID while we’ve been traveling, but I’ll show them mine. Trust me, a cop’s ID goes a long way.”
She looked up again. “You’d do that? You said a trade. What do I have to do?”
“If your condition isn’t serious—and I don’t see why they need to know your medical history—I promise to bring you back here. Then we need to talk.”
“About going back to Detroit?”
“That, but something else. I want to know why Victor left the college last November. I want to know why he died the way he did. Do we have a deal?”
“Okay,” she said weakly. “By the way, what name should I use at the emergency room?”
“I’m Christopher Worthy, and you’re my daughter Allyson.”
Perhaps because the emergency room staff was overwhelmed with victims from an auto accident, things went more smoothly than Worthy had hoped. Ellie was in fact dehydrated as well as malnourished. An IV was ordered, and by seven in the morning, she was released with a prescription in Worthy’s name to ease the nausea. On the way back to St. Claire’s, they stopped for breakfast at Denny’s. The girl’s cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were bright as she ate the scrambled eggs.
“So you can see I’m just fine,” she said as they pulled into the driveway of the home.
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