Enter by the Narrow Gate

by David Carlson

  The sergeant continued to work his toothpick as he conceded that he’d been notified by Santa Fe about a tan Ford van, but no one had reported seeing it.

  “What the hell happened to your arm?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

  “An accident. I fell into a hole.”

  The sergeant seemed to be eyeing Worthy’s starched but sweaty Oxford-cloth shirt. “Where’d you say you was from?”

  “Detroit.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Worthy stared at the man, too tired to know how to respond. This guy was going to help him find Sera and Father Fortis?

  Worthy looked at his watch. It was already past five. He shook his head as if he could shake loose some idea. A fuzzy thought slowly emerged.

  “What about recent reports connected with moradas?”

  The sergeant continued to lean on the counter. “How recent?”

  “Last couple of years.”

  “That would be vandalism,” the sergeant replied as he moseyed over to a computer. “Hell, most of those old places are out in the middle of nowhere, just waiting for kids to break in. And then there’re the folks who want to steal the art. God knows why. It’s all ugly to me, but don’t tell my wife I said that. Hell,” he said, pointing to his name badge, “I’m Serbian.”

  As Sergeant Rakich typed rapidly on the keyboard, Worthy found himself reappraising the man. He couldn’t find Detroit on a map, but he obviously knew his way around a computer.

  After a few minutes, the sergeant’s hands stopped. “Come around here and look for yourself, Lieutenant.”

  Worthy studied a list of break-ins, vandalism, and theft reports.

  “Can we plot these locations on a map?” he asked.

  The sergeant pulled a Baby Ruth candy bar from his pocket. He leaned back in the chair as he peeled back the wrapper. “All twenty of them?”

  “Yeah, all of them.”

  Sergeant Rakich’s eyebrows flared as he munched on the snack. He swiveled in his chair to check a clock on the wall. It was five thirty.

  He’s going to tell me he’s got supper waiting at home, Worthy thought. And then he’s going to tell me they don’t do things like that around here.

  “Oh, what the hell,” the sergeant said. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a map. He unfolded it on the desk. “You want a candy bar or something?”

  “Sure.”

  The sergeant opened the second desk drawer to reveal a mini snack bar.

  “Pick your poison. Now, here’s how we’ll do this,” he said, turning back to the screen. “You call out the location, and I’ll mark it.”

  In ten minutes, the task was done. Several times the sergeant laughed at Worthy’s mispronunciation of names. When finished, the two men studied the marks. All were within thirty miles of the New Mexico border, but other than that no particular pattern was discernible.

  “Which ones were never solved?” Worthy asked.

  The sergeant returned to the screen and began calling out names. Worthy marked the sites on the map. Eight fit that category.

  “Still no pattern,” Worthy said. He looked over the circled towns and forest roads. So now what? “Why do so many of these small roads just seem to dead end?”

  “See those mountains out there?” the sergeant asked, turning toward the picture window behind him. “Those are the San Juan Mountains. The roads you’re looking at dead end in the canyons.”

  “Mountain roads, then,” he said, remembering Father Linus’s comment. Moradas are found on roads that seem to be dead ends.

  “Hell, there’re some horrible roads up there. Most are switchbacks full of chuckholes. Rock slides have closed some of them.”

  Worthy looked out at the mountains turning dark blue in the fading light. “Any other reports from up that way?”

  “In general, you mean? Some cattle rustling and poaching,” the sergeant replied. “We specialize in minor crimes around here.”

  I hope you’re right, Worthy thought. “Anything else?”

  A few minutes of rapid key movements, and the sergeant stopped. “Huh, I forgot about this one.”

  “What is it?”

  “An auto accident three years ago up a forest road outside Platoro. A real nasty one, if I remember the papers. One blind curve after another up that way. Some sheer drop-offs, too.”

  Worthy studied the report on the screen: three people died, two walkers and a person thrown from a vehicle. April 14, 2012, two fifteen in the morning. Victims identified as Oscar Silva and Leonardo Corrales, walkers who died at the scene, and Millie Coffman, a passenger who died later. Four other names of those injured, including a man named Porter Coffman. Husband and wife, Worthy thought.

  “Why would people be walking a forest road at that time of night?” he asked.

  The sergeant took another bite of candy. “You got me. Let’s pull up the newspaper write-up.”

  “Thanks,” Worthy said. He knew, to borrow the sergeant’s words, he was looking for a needle in the haystack. Was this bizarre accident that needle?

  A newspaper headline atop a grainy photo appeared on the screen. “Old Rito Road Claims Two Lives, Another Left in Coma.” The story was filled with insignificant details, including the make of the car, the distance the vehicle had rolled down the cliff, and the hospital where Mrs. Coffman had been taken. There was no answer to the one question Worthy cared about. What had drawn so many people to a desolate mountain road in the middle of the night? The more he read, the more the mystery deepened. Witnesses at the scene said the car had come around a blind corner. Witnesses at that time of the morning?

  “This is crazy,” Worthy said. “It’s like somebody made this up. People out for a stroll at two in the morning?”

  “Look at that,” the sergeant interrupted, pointing to the photo. “Does that look like a banner leaning up against that tree?”

  “So now we’re talking about a parade?” Worthy asked.

  “That’s not a parade. This was in April, right? And you were asking about moradas. I think you’re looking at a Penitente procession.”

  The needle in the haystack, Worthy thought. The two Hispanic men who’d died were Penitente brothers. His eye caught something else in the photo.

  “Is that a body on the ground? Newspapers usually don’t show that.”

  The sergeant squinted at the photo. “It looks like a …. No, it can’t be.”

  Worthy straightened up, his heart racing. “You’re right. It is something else. It’s a skeleton, a wooden one. Black, with white circles painted around the eyes.”

  “You sound like you’ve seen one before.”

  Worthy didn’t answer as he fought with his one good hand to fold the map. La Muerte on the ground, the fourth victim of the accident. Clues were flying out of the haystack. This was no coincidence.

  “What happened to the woman?” he asked.

  “According to this other clipping, she died a week later. You look like you’re going somewhere,” Rakich said, taking over with the map folding.

  “I need a flashlight,” Worthy ordered.

  “You can’t seriously be thinking of heading up that way in the dark.”

  Worthy ignored the sergeant’s logic. “Find out what you can about this Porter Coffman. Oh, and two other things.”

  The sergeant raised both his hands in protest. “Look, I’m technically off duty, and then the station goes to on-call status. The little lady expected me a half-hour ago.”

  Worthy had an image of the sergeant’s daily routine, filing reports on missing cattle before driving home to a wife at the window. The vision was immediately replaced by questions flooding into his mind. Somewhere out there a killer had begun his campaign of terror against the Penitentes. Was it this Porter Coffman? After killing Victor, could he have returned to where it all started? And had the killer crossed paths with Sera and Father Fortis, or were they safely far away?

  “I won’t hold you up,” Worthy replied, “but can you lend
me a cell phone in case you get a call?”

  Worthy adjusted the strap of his sling and felt a twinge of pain run down his arm. A one-armed cop from Detroit driving a dangerous mountain road in the dark. Not very smart, he thought.

  “You don’t have a cell phone?” the sergeant asked in disbelief.

  “It’s a long story. Can you lend me one?”

  The sergeant reached behind the candy bars in the desk drawer and pulled one out. “You said you needed two things. What’s the other?”

  “A gun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From the cramps in his legs and the scratchiness of his eyes, Father Fortis guessed it must be six or seven in the evening. Other than waiting for Eladio to reappear with food, there was little to do but ponder what they knew. Conversation between the two captives came in shorter spurts, tending to double back on what they’d already talked about—Bernard’s strange behavior above ground, his separation from them now, and the strange facility they found themselves in.

  Father Fortis’s failure to hear voices suggested that the underground facility was larger than they’d been allowed to see. The question returned—were there others down here as well? And like the tongue finding a sore tooth, Father Fortis’s thoughts kept returning to Phinehas’s comment about the end of the world.

  For the past ten minutes, Sera had been singing softly. The melodies were mournful to Father Fortis, though not unpleasant. Even Eladio, when he came in the last time to feed them, had stood with his head bowed. At one point he started to raise his right hand to his chest, as if to cross himself, but stopped abruptly and left the room.

  “They’re very soothing, Sera,” Father Fortis said. “Something we both need.”

  “They’re songs from a long time ago, songs I learned as a girl. For years I did my best to forget them. I wanted the other kind of music, the kind we’d hear at school dances. Tell me if you want me to stop. I know my voice isn’t so good.”

  “No, not at all. They’re lovely. I just wish I knew Spanish.”

  Sera gazed down at her bound hands. “They’re about dying. Christ dying, but also the death of those we love.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, pausing a moment. “That last one you were singing—what do the words mean?”

  “I only remember a bit of it,” she said. Softly, she began to sing.

  Adios, adios, Jesus mio

  Adios del cielo y la tierra,

  Que moriste por el hombre

  En una cruz verdadera.

  “That’s beautiful, truly beautiful.”

  “It means ‘Farewell, farewell, my loving Jesus, farewell, from this earthly place. You who died for all of us, on the one true cross.’ ”

  She looked at Father Fortis with tears in her eyes. “Father, I can’t help feeling that this is all so unnecessary, all my fault.”

  “My dear, stop blaming yourself.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not just beating myself up. We’re in this mess because I wanted to make my mark. It wasn’t enough for me to search for missing children. And then Choi suggested I bring Worthy with us. If he’d been here—”

  “Then he’d probably be tied up with us. As it is, he has to be out there looking for us.”

  “But how can he ….”

  The door opened, and Phinehas strode into the room. Neither Eladio nor Father Bernard accompanied him.

  “I want to apologize for being such a poor host,” he said, giving no indication that he’d overheard their conversation. “I’ve been tied up a bit.” He frowned. “Sorry, that must seem crass on my part.”

  Father Fortis watched as the man limped toward the desk on the other side of the room. Whistling softly, he clicked the computer mouse. The screen changed, but Father Fortis’s line of sight was blocked.

  Phinehas turned off the screen. “Nothing. Well, I’m not surprised, though surprised is what they’re going to be,” he said, as if the three of them were confidants.

  He turned the chair around to face his captives. “You must have many questions, as I do of you. Who wants to start?”

  Father Fortis and Sera looked at each other.

  “Perhaps I’ll start then,” the man said. His voice had the same commanding tone as above ground. He positioned his left leg straight out.

  A war wound? Father Fortis wondered.

  “I’m guessing from your get-up that you’re some kind of priest,” he said, looking intently at Father Fortis.

  Father Fortis shook his head, trying to rouse himself. Although he and Sera had done nothing but think about this man, Father Fortis felt completely unprepared for this unexpected discussion.

  “I’m a Greek Orthodox priest as well as a monk,” he said.

  “Really? Have you been to Greece yourself?”

  “Oh, yes, many times,” Father Fortis answered.

  “To Patmos, perhaps? My wife always wanted to go to Patmos. Tell me about Patmos.”

  Father Fortis was struck by the oddness of the situation. It was a conversation that two people might have on a plane.

  “Patmos is beautiful, though a bit touristy,” he replied.

  “We wouldn’t have gone as tourists.”

  Have gone? Had his wife died?

  “Tell me about the cave of John the Revelator,” Phinehas insisted.

  Father Fortis’s eyes wandered to the commentaries of the Book of Revelation on the bookshelf. “You must mean the shrine built at the site of his vision.”

  The leader crossed his arms in front of him, a hand raised to finger his mustache. “I bet it’s gaudy, like some of the old churches around here. Full of candles and incense. Pictures of saints, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “No ‘of course’ about it, mister. Painted up like a whore, I bet. Not what John would have known. He suffered on Patmos, a prisoner of another demonic government.”

  The man seemed to be watching Father Fortis for some reaction. Father Fortis sat silently, taking advantage of the opportunity to study the other man as well.

  “But, praise Jesus, the truth washed over John despite his sufferings,” Phinehas exclaimed. His eyes grew bigger as he stared at Father Fortis. “The raw power of God—that’s what John felt. You just can’t stop it, praise His holy name. Speaking of names, what’s yours?”

  “Father Nicholas Fortis.”

  “Fortis. What do your friends call you? Nick, maybe?” He flashed a sudden smile.

  Father Fortis nodded.

  “Well, we’re going to get to know each other pretty well, so I’ll call you Nick.”

  “And what should we call you?” Sera said.

  “Pardon?” the man asked, as if he’d forgotten the policewoman was present.

  “What’s your name?” she repeated.

  “Playing games with me, little lady? I know the police have been hunting me down.”

  “Eladio called you Phinehas. Is that your real name?” she asked.

  The leader stopped playing with his mustache. He stared at Sera, his eyes cold. “My name is Porter Coffman, but I go by Phinehas. Nick, you must know the derivation of that name.”

  “I was told Phinehas was a priest-warrior.”

  “God’s warrior. He killed two men who’d betrayed the covenant. You know the most powerful part of that story?” Coffman asked, addressing Father Fortis alone.

  “I can’t say I do,” Father Fortis replied.

  “God approved of Phinehas’s zeal. You see, wickedness must be dealt with. God is raw power, and sometimes He needs us to be His instruments of that zeal. So I go by Phinehas Zealman.”

  “Your men call you that?” Father Fortis asked.

  “Maybe. But I answer only to God, Nick.”

  Coffman rubbed his left knee. “It’s your turn. Either of you,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Just don’t ask me anything about the nun. I’ve been talking about her for hours.”

  With Father Bernard, Father Fortis realized. Again, the same question po
unded in his brain. What was Bernard up to?

  “I’ve a question for you,” Sera said, her voice strong. “What did Victor Martinez say when you shoveled the dirt onto him?”

  The force of the question surprised Father Fortis. Sera’s mood had changed dramatically since Phinehas had come into the room, and it worried him. He could see that Coffman’s eyes danced wildly when he looked at Sera.

  “You’re a lieutenant, a pretty impressive rank for a woman. Are you in homicide?”

  “No, missing persons,” she replied.

  “Must be easier to rise in the ranks in that work,” Coffman said evenly. “No offense intended. Now, you asked what the boy said. I don’t remember exactly, but I’ll tell you what he understood by the end. He knew I’m a man of my word, and that I gave him exactly what he wanted.”

  Color rose in Sera’s cheeks. “What did you say?”

  “I said I gave him exactly what he wanted, Missy. You see, I pride myself in understanding people.”

  Sera’s chair squeaked as it moved slightly toward the leader.

  “Careful, careful,” Coffman advised, a smile playing on his face.

  “Victor wanted to be forgiven, you bastard, not die on a cross,” she said.

  The smile left Coffman’s face. “I said the boy and I came to an understanding. I didn’t say we agreed. The Bible never says we’ll agree. But I gave him a chance, just like I’ll give you.”

  Father Fortis could see the hatred that passed between Coffman and Sera. He had to find a way to divert Coffman’s attention away from her.

  “Bernard only wants to know about the nun, and you two only want to know about the boy. How interesting,” Coffman said.

  “You said you gave Victor a chance. What chance was that?” Father Fortis asked. The more Coffman talked, the more Father Fortis revised his estimation of the man. He’d thought Sister Anna and Victor’s killer would be crazy, but Coffman wasn’t that, at least in any obvious sense. There was an odd tone of confidence, even logic, running through the man’s responses. Our only hope is to keep him talking, to find in this logic some hope of escape, Father Fortis thought. But with them bound and below ground, Coffman seemed to hold all the cards.