The knife rested for a second on the tape as if Coffman were pondering something before he took a vigorous step forward and sank the blade into Father Bernard’s stomach. Father Fortis heard Father Bernard gasp as he looked down at his wound. Coffman took the knife’s handle in both hands and with a powerful pull drew it upward. Father Bernard was lifted slightly in the chair by Coffman’s strength, the priest’s mouth trying to say something before his eyes rolled back in his head. Coffman pulled out the knife and in haste hobbled to the door behind the altar.
Father Fortis heard himself screaming. Sera had turned her head away to vomit, while Eladio had remained next to the far door, his eyes wide and fixed on Coffman.
The leader put his ear to the door behind the altar. “Shut up, all of you!” he ordered. He stood poised at the door, as if trying to hear something or waiting for orders.
After a moment, his head dropped to his chest. “More, Lord?” he asked. “Is the cup still not full?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Father Fortis felt a wave of power surge within him as he watched blood flow down Father Bernard’s shirt and pants onto the floor. He knew that he might be the next to die, but somehow, some way, he would go out in a blaze of glory that Coffman would never forget. He would bite, he would throw his whole body, chair included, at this man. He would make him pay.
Growing up with the stories of the saints, Father Fortis had always wondered how he would face death when his time came. He wasn’t a saint, and he knew from the bottom of his heart, if he were to die in this bunker, he would not go out with forgiveness on his lips.
The drama in the room shifted to Eladio. The derelict opened the far door, even as Coffman seemed unwilling to leave the door by the altar. The leader shouted directions across the room, but it was as if Eladio could no longer hear him. Eladio’s head was lolling from side to side as he mumbled a tangle of words.
“Father, he was a father … not my father … call no man father … the cup should be full,” and finally, “Lord, have mercy.”
“Eladio, are you going to run away like last time?” Coffman taunted.
“Confess … need to confess,” Eladio mumbled.
Father Fortis caught Sera’s eye. She spat mucus from her mouth, but her eyes sparkled.
The two watched as some unspoken tug of war was waged between the two captors. Eladio stood tall in the doorway, his whole body shaking. The next moment he was gone, slamming the door behind him. Father Fortis heard a bolt click.
Coffman jumped away from his post at the noise, hobbling hurriedly across the room and pushing against the door.
“The Judge sees you, Eladio!” he shouted. “Save yourself and unlock this door!”
There was no sound from the other side, and Coffman stepped back to inspect the door.
Father Fortis looked over at Sera, who nodded toward the door behind the altar.
“In there,” she seemed to be mouthing.
What? he thought. Did she think the door provided some way out? They now outnumbered Coffman, but they were still shackled.
Coffman drew a utility tool from his pocket. Opening a long screwdriver blade, he began methodically working on the lock. “I built every inch of this place, every inch. Patience, my dear, patience.” He soon pulled open the door and looked back at his two captives. “I’ll be back with Eladio in a few seconds. Remember, I’ve got a detonator.”
The room was utterly quiet as Father Bernard’s blood pooled noiselessly on the floor. Father Fortis whispered to Sera, “What were you trying to say?”
“Can you hop in your chair?”
“I don’t know,” he said, thinking of the motion detectors. “Why?”
“If we can get through that door,” she said, motioning with her head toward the altar, “we’ve got a chance.”
“What? Didn’t you hear what he just said?”
“I know what he said. I just don’t believe him.”
Had she gone crazy? “Sera, he just killed Father Bernard, and think what he did to Sister Anna and Victor. He’d kill us in a heartbeat.”
“Not if one of us can get into that room.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nick, we don’t have much time. Listen to me. He’s not going to blow us up if we can get in there with her.”
“Her? What are you talking about?”
“His wife. She’s in there. I’m sure of it,” Sera whispered.
“What?” he exclaimed, staring at the door behind the altar.
“Think about it. Why did he keep peeking in there? And he just said, ‘Patience, dear, patience.’ You don’t think he was talking to me, do you?”
“But his wife’s dead!” Father Fortis protested.
“Of course she is, but he’s got her body in there. He thinks she’ll come back to life.”
“By killing others?”
Coffman’s steps could be heard on the stairs.
“Just follow my lead when I figure this out,” she whispered. “If I can find a way to get him out of the room for a few moments, maybe tell him I have to go to the bathroom, you start hopping.”
“And do what?”
“It has to be dark in there, and you’re a big guy. Fall on him, chair and all, when he comes through that door. I’ll be in chains, but I’ll …. Shh.”
Coffman hobbled into the room and sat down wearily in a chair. Gone was the confident expression he’d worn all day and evening. He placed the detonator on the floor and began rubbing his bad knee.
“He’ll come back. He always does. Not that it’ll matter in a couple of hours. Nothing will matter then,” Coffman said as he glanced up toward the altar.
Worthy drove absurdly fast, fighting not only fatigue but the weird images in his head. He could force himself to stay awake, but how long would it be before he missed a stop sign or failed to negotiate a curve?
He contemplated calling Rakich at the station at Antonito, but imagined what the groggy sergeant would say. “Let me get this straight. You had a dream—no, a waking dream—about your daughter and big leaves!”
He turned off onto Forest Road 250 and drove as if he were the last man on earth. In the rearview mirror, he could see the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon behind him. Ahead, in a bunker underneath the old morada, could be his friends. Was it just another mirage to imagine that they were still alive?
He shook his head and fought the hypnotic pull of sleep. He would have to think clearly. He couldn’t simply barge into the place as he had the night before. The static in the cell phone had to mean electronic equipment, cameras, maybe even motion detectors. That would mean Coffman had already spotted him. Why hadn’t the man killed him then?
Forty-five minutes later, the sun now turning the mountains ahead of him from purple to gold, Worthy began the last rise toward the morada. He would leave the car short of the abandoned place and approach it carefully from behind. Somewhere along the way, he hoped, a plan would emerge.
As he rounded the curve leading to the accident site, he spotted something odd ahead. He pulled over and turned off the engine. If he wasn’t hallucinating, a van was parked at the accident site. Not just any van, but a tan sheriff’s van. He stepped quietly from the car and felt for the gun.
He hugged the cliff side of the road as he approached the vehicle. From a hundred yards away, he could see the yellow New Mexico license plates. The van’s lights were on, but the motor was off. He drew out the gun and checked the clip as he stepped forward. Stay alert, stay alert. Watch where you step, proceed slowly, he ordered himself, as if reading from one of the training manuals at the academy.
But the manual would have disapproved of what he was doing. He should have walked a safe distance from the scene to call for backup. But then the manual didn’t know that the entire area could be under surveillance and any communication might instantly make his presence known.
He crouched as he rounded the last bend, pondering the open space between himself and
the van. Should he storm it or proceed slowly? What if he had to shoot? The echo through the canyon would surely alert everyone to his presence.
He looked down at the gun for a moment, then at the twenty yards of gravel he’d have to cross. He saw only one option. Holding the gun in his good hand, he sprinted across the road and prepared himself for whatever would happen.
But nothing did. There was no sound but the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the sound of flapping wings as three ravens flew up from the canyon beyond the road’s edge. He pressed himself flat and low against the passenger side of the van. Catching his breath, he rose and looked in. Empty.
Crouching down again, he carefully edged his way around to the front and rested his good hand on the grill. It was still warm. Whoever had driven this van had done so recently.
He ran toward the road’s edge. More birds rose as his shoes spit small stones into the canyon. Why so many birds? He peeked over the edge and saw an odd shape ten feet below the road’s edge. It was as if a man were leaning against a tree, studying the two crosses ten feet beyond. Worthy raised his gun to order the figure to turn around when it suddenly dawned on him that the man couldn’t respond. The man wasn’t leaning against the tree, but hanging by a belt from it.
Father Fortis tried to muster some belief in Sera’s plan, but his brain kept stumbling over its flaws. He didn’t have the strength to hop the fifteen feet to the door behind the altar. A loss of balance would mean he’d end up on the floor, as helpless as an upside-down turtle. Even if he reached the door, how could he and the metal chair attached to him ever fit through it?
But the plan seemed doomed by two even more serious considerations. First, how could Sera possibly distract Coffman long enough for him to do his part? If she feigned illness, what guarantee was there that he wouldn’t simply kill her on the spot?
Second, and even more worrisome, Coffman had changed in the last twenty minutes. He worked silently as he dragged Father Bernard’s body to the door from where Eladio had fled. Gone were the duels of conversation, gone the jabs at the police’s inability to catch him, and gone was the confidence he’d exhibited when Eladio had been there. Coffman had clearly expected something to happen with Father Bernard’s death. Eladio had felt it too, and when it hadn’t, he’d betrayed his beloved leader.
Sera’s entire plan was predicated on Coffman being a man of logic, an engineer and a systematic killer, a man with confident conviction. If Coffman were experiencing doubts, wouldn’t that make him harder to predict? And far more dangerous?
Sera was as silent as Coffman, rarely catching Father Fortis’s eye. She’s smart enough to see the same flaws, Father Fortis thought.
He looked down at the chains that bound him to the chair and would likely ensure his death. How odd that the only prayer he could remember was one of his mother’s. She’d taught it to him the very night she’d told him his father had lost his job in the foundry and that they would have to move to a rougher neighborhood in Baltimore.
Help me to face and endure my difficulty with faith, courage, and wisdom. Grant that this trial may bring me closer to You, for you are my rock and refuge, my comfort and hope.
Coffman paced the room, stopping occasionally to stare at the blood on the floor as if it would speak. He fingered his mustache nervously.
If we don’t think of something quickly, we won’t have a chance, Father Fortis thought. He hastily added a further petition to his prayer. If this is to be my end, oh God, prepare me to face death without shame and in hope of eternal life.
Was it the thought of death that made it more difficult to breathe? Perspiration started on his brow and began to weave its way down into his beard. He looked up at the vent above but felt nothing. Was this all his imagination?
He glanced over at Coffman, who seemed lost in thought. But there, on the killer’s forehead, beads of sweat were also forming. Sera, too, was licking a drop of sweat from her upper lip. Coffman stood and hobbled over to the vent in the middle of the room. He raised his hand to the grill.
“Sand is in the filter again,” he said.
Father Fortis felt his heart jump. The filter would have to be at ground level, which would mean they’d have a chance to try Sera’s crazy plan. The two captives stared at each other, as if each knew the next minutes would mean life or death.
Coffman walked to the far end of the room, picked up the detonator from the floor and flashed it at them before leaving. Two seconds later, he appeared in the doorway again, an assault weapon in his hand. “I don’t have to tell you to sit tight, do I?” Then he was gone.
Thank you, God, for miracles like sand in filters, for a chance to live or die with faith and courage. “Save us by your mercy,” he prayed aloud in a whisper.
From across the room, Sera added, “Amen, Nick. But let’s hope we have something else to be thankful for.”
“Like what?”
“Like that clog in the filter being more than an accident.”
“Are you saying Eladio did it?”
“No, I think Chris did,” she whispered with the hint of a smile.
Instinctively, Father Fortis gazed up at the ceiling as adrenaline raced through him. He took a quick hop in the direction of the door. “Oh, God, Christopher, be careful.”
Worthy readied himself in the darkest corner of the morada. The sun outside was flooding the doorway with light, allowing him a clear view of the mound of leaves ten feet away. He’d had no trouble following the van’s tracks back to the morada. He’d approached the place by way of the trees and rocks and in that way had found the air intake vent. It had been easy to jam sand and leaves down it.
He raised his pistol and waited, even as doubts as big as semis rumbled through his brain. There was indeed some underground structure below him, but what if it had several exits? And what if he found himself facing three or four armed men? Worse yet, what if someone brought Sera or Nick up with him as a shield? Yet another horrible scenario followed. What if Coffman had already moved his captives to another location?
He crouched lower, his arm shaking. No, they have to be here, he told himself. He’d get only one shot, and then whoever was down below would know everything. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool morning air. His stomach felt suddenly queasy. What if in trying to rescue his friends he caused their deaths?
He eased up on the gun as his brain scrambled to find a safer plan. Words he’d said not more than a month before at the academy came back to him. “There are times when the worst thing you can do is second-guess your plan.”
Was this one of those times? Before he could answer that, he heard a click from the other corner of the room, as if a handle had been turned. He steadied his gun. Slowly, the leaves moved together, rising an inch, then several, before lifting as a solid unit toward him. Not one leaf fell to the ground.
He uttered a short gasp as he remembered his last visit to this place. The damned cell phone had gone off. What if Rakich called him again? Without looking at his watch, Worthy figured it must be nearly eight thirty, the time he’d promised to meet the sergeant at the station. What if Rakich thinks I’ve overslept?
The trapdoor stopped its upward progress. Had he been heard? His thoughts kept returning to the phone in his coat pocket. He might as well as be carrying a ticking bomb.
Take deep, slow breaths, he told himself, as the door remained poised, half-open. Whoever was on the other side of that door was listening. He shifted the gun to his injured hand and reached into the pocket for the phone.
Slowly, the trapdoor edged upward and the top of a head appeared. It was a flattop, military-style. Was it Coffman, or could it be someone else? What if the head belonged to the other priest from St. Mary’s?
He glanced down at the phone and then at the gun in his useless hand. What am I doing? he thought. He pushed the off button on the phone and had just put it back into his pocket when he heard a faint tune coming from inside his coat. Oh, God, no! The phone was telling him
he’d shut it off.
The figure emerging from the trapdoor swiveled toward the sound, and in the next second the air was filled with blinding flashes. He could hear bullets thumping into the adobe wall behind him as he returned fire. Other bullets, flying higher, sent splinters of wood raining down on Worthy as he fell to the ground.
The nightmare unfolded in fractions of seconds. The door dropped down with a bang, cutting Worthy off from the bunker below. But before it slammed shut, Worthy heard an alarm go off below ground.
“Oh, God, no,” he repeated as he scrambled toward the leaves in the corner. Shoving the gun into his pocket, he felt for a handle, knowing his worst fear had come true. His friends could be dying at that very moment because of him.
His good hand found a small iron circle. Pulling on it with all his strength, he raised the door no more than a couple of inches. In the gap, he heard the beeping of the alarm below. He pulled harder. No good. He rose, yanking the sling from his bad arm. His injured shoulder and arm felt light, like a child’s, as he reached down with both hands for the ring. But as he pulled on it again, he felt his shoulder shudder in disbelief, then scream in pain as the door rose six inches, then three more.
Stars flashed in the corners of his eyes, and his legs begin to buckle as he held the door open with his bad arm. Something tore in his shoulder as his good arm found the door’s edge. He pulled upward with all his might. The door suddenly flew up, throwing him back on the wooden floor. On his feet again, he looked down at steps leading into a room below.
Pulling the gun from his pocket, he jumped down the stairwell. In front of him, the alarm sounded more insistent, but he listened only for the dreaded sound of gunfire. Instead, he heard Father Fortis’s booming voice screaming out.
“How dare you! How dare you!” Coffman yelled from far down the corridor. “Do you both want to die?”
“You blow us up, and your wife goes too,” Sera yelled back as she hopped forward. She was already to the edge of the door.
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