Angel Fire

by Lisa Unger

  “They’re the same,” Lydia said, certain.

  “Looks that way,” answered Morrow, nodding.

  Lydia’s eyes drifted to the back of the church to the doorway through which Juno had disappeared moments before. Jeffrey noted it was the third time her eyes had followed the path Juno had taken. She wouldn’t even glance in Jeffrey’s direction and they hadn’t made eye contact all morning. She was moving away again, just as he had accused her of doing last night. Maybe it was always going to be like this with her. Maybe it was just time to forget it, time to move on, sad as the thought made him.

  Jeffrey sat down in one of the pews and watched as a man in beige coveralls painstakingly polished the long wooden table on the altar. He seemed to make endless small circles with the cloth in his hand and moved slowly and stiffly, as though he were a robot low on fuel. Every few circles, the man would shuffle a few inches to the side and begin polishing another small section. Maybe sensing that he was being watched, he lifted his eyes and looked at Jeffrey with a blank, unseeing stare. Not blind, but uncomprehending. The man was obviously mentally impaired. Jeffrey smiled but the man looked back down at the table, returning to his circles. An old woman kneeled in the first pew, her head bent. Jeffrey could hear the murmuring of her prayer.

  Morrow walked around the church, his footfalls echoing loudly as he looked behind some embroidered wall-hangings, and under the pews. He stepped into the confessional, touching the tattered Bible with a tentative finger.

  “Bet you haven’t been inside one of these in a while,” said Lydia from the other side, through the wrought-iron grating, startling him.

  “About as long as you,” he shot back, more weakly than he would have liked.

  Lydia chuckled. He couldn’t be sure if she was laughing at him but it was a safe bet. He went back to join Jeffrey.

  The wood inside the confessional was spotless—meticulously scrubbed and dusted. The cushion on the small bench was old and worn with bits of white stuffing visible beneath the red velvet cover. Lydia felt uncomfortable, the same feeling she had had in the garden, during her first visit, like somebody’s eyes were on her. She peeked through the grating, but Morrow was gone. She picked up the Bible off a narrow shelf. The leather was smooth and malleable from years of use, and the pages, the edges gilded with gold, made a crisp whisper as she flipped through the book absently. She hadn’t held a Bible since her mother’s funeral. “Lydia,” Jeffrey called.

  She walked from the confessional to see Juno and the man who must be Father Luis Alonzo sitting in the final pew. She was introduced to the priest and he rose as he shook her hand.

  As Jeffrey told the priest about the recent disappearances and what they had come to suspect, Lydia watched Father Luis’s open, earnest face darken with concern. He leaned slightly forward and began knitting his hands. She could see him searching his mind for the last time he’d seen Harold and Christine, Shawna, or Maria. And in his deep, brown eyes, she saw the flicker of something else. Something she hadn’t expected and which didn’t make sense. Fear.

  “Of course I’d noticed their absences. At first I thought nothing of it. It is not uncommon for people to drift away from the church and then return. Then I read in the paper that first Shawna, then Harold and Christine were missing.” He shook his head. “I never connected them to each other. Then Maria, may she rest in peace. Even then I never made the connections.”

  “We’ve missed Shawna very much,” he continued quietly. “She was a great help to us. Maria came to confession every Wednesday and to mass every Sunday. Christine and Harold came to Sunday mass sporadically over the years.”

  Morrow pulled the crucifix from his pocket and handed it to the priest. “Did you make this, Father?”

  The priest inspected it, holding it in a hand that trembled slightly. “Yes, it looks like an older one. Where did you find it?”

  “At Ms. Lopez’s apartment. One was found at the homes of each of the other missing persons as well.”

  The priest tapped his foot lightly on the floor. It was an unconscious gesture, the slender black leather shoe rapping a staccato on old wood. Lydia and Jeffrey exchanged a glance. “I have to admit, I never imagined any harm had befallen them. Maria, of course—the headlines were shocking. But Shawna, Christine, and Harold were all troubled people. I thought they had just run off.”

  “That’s what we all thought,” said Morrow.

  “Not all of us,” muttered Lydia. The priest appeared not to have heard her, but Morrow shot her an angry look.

  “And it still might turn out, though it’s doubtful, that Shawna, Christine, and Harold have nothing to do with our case,” interjected Jeffrey. “But, Father, if you know anything that could help us, now would be the time to let us know. Anybody any one of them may have mentioned to you. Someone they were afraid of …?” Jeffrey sat down beside the priest, who seemed to be deep in thought.

  “Nothing comes to mind,” he said, sighing.

  Lydia spoke up for the first time. “Father, it seems obvious, with all of these people being members of your congregation, with the dog’s body that was found here, with the crucifixes that were found in each of the victim’s homes, that this church is somehow tied in. Has anyone said anything to you during confession that may have sounded suspicious or threatening?” She fixed her eyes on him as if she were trying to read his mind.

  “Obviously, I would be loath to violate the sanctity of the confessional. But I can tell you that certainly I have heard nothing of the nature you mean.”

  “Does the church have any employees other than you and your nephew?”

  “No, we have volunteers who care for the church. Some are just parishioners who want to give time to the church, like Shawna. Some do community service here, you know, as punishment for a minor offense of some kind, and some of them come from the school for the mentally challenged.”

  “The man who is here today, was he from the school you mentioned?” asked Jeffrey.

  “I’m not sure who you mean.”

  Jeffrey looked up and saw that the man was gone. The old woman who had been praying had also left unnoticed. “He was polishing the table.”

  “We didn’t have anyone in today to do volunteer work, as far as I knew.” He turned to his nephew. “Juno, did you schedule anyone?”

  “No, I didn’t. The people from the school are always scheduled because they need to be supervised,” he explained. “They usually come in groups. The volunteer parishioners come and go as they please.”

  “Did either of you see the man I saw?” Jeffrey asked Morrow and Lydia. Both shook their heads. “Morrow, can you go take a look out the door?”

  “Sure,” he said, rising and walking to the entrance.

  “Father, can we get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers of your congregation and volunteers?” Lydia asked.

  The priest hesitated. “I don’t think I’m within my rights …”

  Morrow returned, overhearing the priest’s reluctance.

  “Father, this is a murder investigation. If you would like me to get a warrant, I can do that,” said Morrow, respectfully but with authority.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He rose. “I’ll just get what I have from my office. Of course, not all of the people who attend mass give their addresses.”

  “Of course. What you have will be good enough for now,” Jeffrey answered.

  When the priest had left, Morrow turned to Jeffrey. “I didn’t see anyone out there. There are no vehicles except for ours and the church van.”

  “I wasn’t aware of anyone else being here today, except for Mrs. Mancher who walks here to pray nearly every day,” said Juno.

  “Did you notice any other vehicles when we came in?” Jeffrey asked Lydia and Morrow.

  “No, the lot was empty,” Lydia answered, and the chief nodded his agreement.

  The priest returned with some xeroxed pages and handed them to Jeffrey.

  “Thank you, Father.
Lydia, is there anything else you need from Juno and Father Luis at this point?”

  “Just one thing. Father, have you noticed that any of your parishioners, or any of your volunteers, drive a green minivan?”

  He let out a small laugh. “Well, in fact, I drive a green Dodge Caravan.”

  All three of them looked at him.

  “But it’s been in the shop for the last week, and I’ve been using the church van for all my business. My minivan is an older model and the transmission is slipping,” he said; then added uncomfortably, “It’s a fairly common vehicle.”

  “What service station is it at, Father?” Morrow asked. “No disrespect, of course, but we’ll need to take a look at it.”

  “It’s at the Amoco station in town. I’ll call and let them know you’ll be dropping by.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?” asked Morrow.

  “No, but I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.”

  The priest was kind and eager to help, but Lydia was sure he had something to hide. The fact that he owned a green minivan had thrown her a bit. She turned the possibilities around in her mind. Was he protecting someone? Was he involved in some way? She looked at him, his eyes filled with emotion and empathy, his large soft hands, the slight paunch of his belly. It didn’t seem likely.

  “Father, have you noticed anyone strange lurking about the church? Someone who has recently started coming to mass but that you haven’t met before?” she asked. “Someone whose behavior has struck you as odd?”

  Lydia saw something in the priest’s eye—a thought he considered voicing but dismissed.

  “No, all my parishioners have been coming here for years, many of them as children themselves.”

  “The man I saw today?” said Jeffrey. “He was large-framed, with sandy-blond hair. He wore beige coveralls. He appeared to be … you know, a bit on the slow side. Does this sound like anyone you know to be a volunteer here?”

  “Well, there is Benny. He doesn’t go to the school I mentioned. But he is somewhat impaired. According to his mother, he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old. He does come by occasionally and do some work for us. He loves to work in the garden. In fact, his name and number are on the list I gave you. Benjamin Savroy.”

  “Thank you for your time, Father, Juno,” said Jeffrey, shaking each hand. “You can expect us to be stopping by again.”

  Lydia said her good-byes as well. “Father, Juno, if you think of anything—no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to you, please call us.”

  —

  The three left and the church was quiet and peaceful again. The air still tingled with her essence, even as Juno listened to their cars pull away. Lydia’s scent still lingered, mingling with the odor of wood, candle wax, and incense.

  Juno had remained silent throughout his uncle’s interview. He felt strongly that something horrible had befallen all the missing people. He had little doubt they had met with a fate similar to Maria’s. Juno was not an emotional person by nature and though he was deeply saddened by these events, they failed to move him to tears, as they did his uncle. Juno possessed an unflappable inner peace. Though he had great empathy, and a tremendous capacity to feel, the core of him, his faith in God, in the order of His universe, remained solid. No matter how horrible a tragedy occurred, no matter how people suffered, Juno knew in his heart that he and all people were part of a plan, God’s plan. After death, all suffering would fade from memory and the plan would be revealed. This is what his Bible and his heart told him.

  And as he had listened to their conversation, something had begun to tickle at the edge of his consciousness. Like a whisper from a distant place, he caught the scent of lavender, of rose, of Lydia. His thoughts had turned to her many times since they had met. To touch her was like an electric shock, blue heat. He had seen her so clearly that first day—her power, her emotion, her fear and vulnerability. The different shades of her, the black and white of her soul and the internal battle that was waged there, intrigued him, excited him. It was so unlike anything he had known in his own inner life.

  He realized that his uncle was sitting in the pew in front of him but hadn’t said a word since they had been alone. “Uncle, will you be all right?”

  The pause was pregnant with sorrow, and when the priest spoke, his words were taut with tears. “Yes. But it is not for myself that I am afraid.”

  “Of course.”

  The priest rose and left Juno alone in the church. In the silence Juno contemplated Lydia and Jeffrey. The rising temperature in the church told Juno that it was nearing noon. Jeffrey’s tone had been quiet and professional but the sound of Lydia’s name on his tongue was liquid with love. In the way Jeffrey’s lips touched those three syllables, Juno could feel his passion for her, taste Jeffrey’s painful restraint.

  At wedding services, Juno often played guitar. Seated on his wooden stool, he perched at the altar, to the right of Father Alonzo. He could hear the bride and groom exchange their vows, and could sense almost instantly who married for money, for fear, for lack of any better opportunities. On only a few occasions had he heard the sound of fierce, tremulous love in the voices of both being joined before the eyes of God. Only rarely had he heard the melodic pitch of two souls bound long before they had reached the church to exchange their earthly vows.

  He detected such a bond between Lydia and Jeffrey. But the chorus of her fears was louder.

  Lydia dragged on her cigarette, face like stone, eyes staring at the road in front of her. She drew smoke into her lungs, its drug soothing her, cooling her agitation like ice water in her veins. Jeffrey rolled down his window as he watched her slender arm move from the steering wheel to her lips. It was a graceful, sensuous movement—more so because it was unconscious.

  “I want to stop by the station and see what they’ve come up with on that list of park visitors. I want to cross-check it against that list of volunteers,” Lydia said, again driving too fast up the winding road away from the church.

  “And I want to go talk to that slow kid,” said Jeffrey, forever politically correct.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked him.

  “I’m not sure. That priest has something to hide, though.”

  “I picked up on that, too. You think he’s involved?” she answered, her words punctuated by a sharp exhalation of smoke.

  “He drives a green minivan, he made the crosses that were found at each scene, he had knowledge of and proximity to all the victims. If he wasn’t a priest, I might have taken him in,” Jeffrey said, only half joking. “I don’t think he’s involved directly. But I think he knows something. I’m going to have Morrow put some men on the church, have them lurk about, make people uncomfortable, and see what shakes loose. We also need to get a tech out to that minivan.”

  “Jeffrey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How long are you going to stay?”

  “As long as I need to.”

  A leaden silence fell between them. He waited for her to say something to clarify the meaning of her question. But she just reached for the ashtray and stubbed out her cigarette.

  “Why?” he asked finally. “Do you want me to get a room somewhere?”

  “No,” she said quickly, sharply, glancing over at him. “Of course not. Don’t you dare.”

  “Then why?”

  “I was just wondering,” she said, quickly lighting another cigarette with one hand. After she took a drag, she added, “I just don’t think I can get through this without you.”

  “Well, you won’t have to. In fact, you never have to get through anything without me, if you don’t want to. As you well know.”

  He stared out the window as he said this, and she looked over at him, her heart tight in her chest. He put his hand on her knee and she did not remove it. Why are you more afraid of him than you are of serial killers?

  The minivan lead was a weak one but it was all they had right now. So Lydia sat in an uncomfortable orange plastic cha
ir, in a rickety carrel housing a computer that might have been older than she was. The sun beating in through a window in the police station’s computer center warmed her back as she entered into the Division of Motor Vehicles database the license-plate numbers of vehicles that had entered Cimarron State Park in the hours between Maria Lopez’s time of death and the discovery of her body.

  This was grunt work pure and simple but she had wanted to do it. Jeffrey and Morrow went with forensics to the service station to have a look at the priest’s minivan. It was a reasonable thing to do, but it just didn’t work for her. She couldn’t reconcile the priest she had met with the killer in her mind. However, maybe the killer had access to the van, had been using it without the priest’s knowledge. It was certainly worth looking into. But her time was better spent going over what they had. Morrow had been surprised that Lydia wanted to run the lists. But she knew that no one would be more likely to pick up an inconsistency or make a match than she would.

  Meanwhile, the only prints recovered from the Lopez crime scene were Maria’s and those matching Mike Urquia, who they already knew had been there. The killer must have been wearing gloves. It was also likely that he had worn gloves when delivering Lydia’s “gift” last night, as no prints or DNA had been found. A local homicide detective was visiting area shoestores and searching the Web for boot treads that matched the footprint left at the dump site. In the absence of any substantial physical evidence, the best they could hope for was a lucky break. And that Lydia’s “buzz” would lead them to it.

  So, she started with the list of 123 vehicles that had entered the park on the day following the Lopez murder. Of those cars, 60 had been rented from Albuquerque Airport rental-car offices, two were school buses shuttling kids in for a nature walk, and the remaining 61 belonged to private citizens in the area.