by Lisa Unger
“I know,” he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing.
It had been a long day and the sun was going down as Lydia sat on the stoop outside the Hugo home, writing longhand in her notebook the events of the day, narrating them already. In the house behind her, she could still hear the activity of the crime scene. Jeffrey’s voice was clear and strong, full of authority. The sound of it comforted her as she wrote. A parade of people rushed back and forth, carrying evidence away, delivering coffee and files.
She looked up from her notebook when she heard a vehicle approach, and saw Wizner emerge with three police officers and walk toward the house. “I think you’ll be interested in this, Ms. Strong,” Wizner said without stopping or looking at her as he passed. She got up to follow them.
Jeffrey looked up from the conversation he was having with one of the forensics officers when Wizner walked in.
“Well, Mr. Mark, it looks like those organs weren’t put to such good use after all.”
“That’s what I hear, Wizner,” said Jeffrey, not in the mood for a flashy presentation.
“They were buried in the church garden … four human hearts preserved in jars of formaldehyde.”
“How long will it be before you are able to determine whether the hearts belong to the victims?”
“I’m on my way to the office right now. I just thought you’d like to know first what we found.”
“No sign of Father Luis?” asked Chief Morrow.
“No bodies in the garden, only the hearts,” Wizner answered with a ghoulish smile, as if he’d just said something witty.
After another hour, the room and the house started to clear out as Forensics completed the gathering of evidence. All Hugo’s equipment had been removed, and only a few technicians remained, combing for hair and fibers, searching for minuscule blood samples in the carefully scrubbed and sanitized room.
Jeffrey and Lydia stood alone in the room and stared at the walls.
“You certainly figure rather prominently in his imagination,” said Jeffrey.
“It must run in the family,” she answered, trying to sound light but failing.
She got up and walked over to him, and without hesitation wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him. She felt his body relax and he folded her in his arms. She didn’t care who saw them or what anyone thought. She was just glad she didn’t have to face her demons alone anymore.
The chief approached them. “Jeff, can I have a word with you?”
Lydia bristled at her exclusion, but she tried not to eavesdrop as the two walked out into the hallway, and pretended instead to be looking closely at the collages on the walls. At first the chief looked contrite and almost ashamed. Jeffrey’s jaw was set the way it generally was when he would reprimand Lydia. And then she saw the chief’s face flush in anger as he raised his voice a bit.
“Don’t forget who runs the show here, Mr. Mark,” he said, and stormed from the house, climbed into his car, and pulled quickly down the drive, his tires spitting up gravel.
“What was that all about?” she asked as Jeffrey returned to her, shaking his head.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps.”
They walked out the front door of the house and got into Lydia’s Kompressor, and started for home.
On the way back, Lydia shared with Jeffrey her conversation with Juno.
“It doesn’t seem possible that someone could believe a story like that,” Jeffrey said skeptically.
“I agree that it’s hard to believe, but trust me when I tell you it’s true. He had no idea what actually happened to his parents until I told him.”
“How did he take it?”
“Badly. It was sad. He was such an innocent and that’s lost now. Bernard Hugo murdered his innocence.”
They were both silent for a moment as Lydia drove fast on the dark, winding road toward home, the Mercedes hugging curves, graceful and silent.
“So, if you were Bernard Hugo, what would be your next move?” Lydia asked Jeffrey.
“Well, it depends. If I came back this way and saw my house swarming with cops and I was sane, I’d probably dump the minivan, steal another vehicle, or hop a bus and get out of Dodge.”
“But if you weren’t sane, if you needed to stick around for some reason, where would you hide?”
“In all those miles of desert and mountains … all I need is a tent and some supplies. But why would I want to stick around?”
“Because the man who killed your son, the man whose heart is the most false of all, is still alive. His heart is still beating and every day it does, it’s a greater insult to God.”
chapter twenty-four
Simon Morrow hadn’t said a word since he returned home. He’d just sat in the old lawn chair that had been in all the backyards of their marriage. His wife knew well enough to leave him be; so she’d left a plate of food on the table for him and gone out with her friends. It was moments like these when he remembered he was an alcoholic. He felt a hurtful need for a beer as the light dimmed around him and evening fell.
He’d left the scene in disgust. After the hopes he’d had this morning, he’d felt crushed by the events of the afternoon. Is this what it means to be a broken man? he wondered. That’s how he felt. He knew his wife felt differently. She had told him once that he was her hero. It was after the whole incident in St. Louis. She’d said it was because he recognized his faults and worked to make them better. She’d cried a little when she told him how much she admired him. The fact he knew she was sincere made him feel like that much more of a heel. But he’d always hoped one day to feel worthy of her pride, of her love. Tonight he believed that day might never come, and it hurt—almost as much as his need for a double scotch neat.
He wondered if Bernard Hugo was long gone or if he was hovering someplace nearby, unsure of where to go and what to do. Simon Morrow wondered if maybe he understood a little of the desperation Hugo must feel right now. They had both lost something that had caused them to lose themselves a little. Different, certainly. But wasn’t there always something recognizable in the most insane human reaction to pain?
How often had Simon Morrow wished he could return to the St. Louis station house? Not to go back there for a visit as the man he was today, but to go back to the man he had been in the days he ran the place, pretty damn well, he thought. How highly he’d thought of himself then. Never a moment of self-doubt, self-recrimination. What he wouldn’t give to walk those halls again as a young man. He wondered if Bernard Hugo felt the same way.
Morrow rose and entered his house through the sliding glass doors that led to his comfortable living room. He grabbed his car keys off the countertop in the kitchen, and pulled a light jacket off the back of a table chair. He walked out the front door and went to the police cruiser parked in his driveway. He felt a twinge of self-loathing as he crawled behind the wheel, as if he didn’t deserve to be operating department equipment. He thought he’d just take a little ride over to the hospital where Bernard Hugo used to work.
Each of Juno’s other senses told him he was in the wrong place. The air smelled of roses and peppermint. The bed was too soft, the sheets too fragrant. He could hear Mrs. Turvey puttering downstairs, cleaning dinner dishes and humming softly. He must have dozed after dinner. He had eaten a great deal in spite of his grief and everything he had learned today. But now he was awake. And he knew with certainty that he was in the wrong place. He must return to the church immediately. It wasn’t his mind that told him this. It was not a desire to be surrounded with the things that were familiar to him. And it was not a desire to be alone. It was something larger, something outside himself that told Juno he was in the wrong place.
It wasn’t far and he could certainly walk. He had done so a million times as a child. He was sure he remembered the way. He had his cane with him. Mrs. Turvey had told him when she’d leaned it against the doorjamb. He would need to wait until she went to bed. Otherw
ise he would only worry her, or she would try to stop him somehow. So he would lie and wait until the house was silent. And then he would go home.
chapter twenty-five
As they pulled up to the house, two uniformed police officers greeted their car.
“The repairman for the alarm system was here today, Ms. Strong,” said one of the baby-faced officers. “He put a new breaker box inside the garage and says it should be fine now.”
“Perfect,” said Jeffrey, “but a little late.”
“Yes sir,” answered the officer.
“Come up for coffee if you get cold, guys,” said Lydia, pulling her cream suede jacket around her against the chill.
“Thank you, Ms. Strong.”
It felt strange to her, as she turned the brushed-chrome knob and entered through the front door, that Bernard Hugo had been in her house. The hand that had murdered and removed the hearts of innocent people had been on the same doorknob that hers rested on now. She had felt invaded last night but now that she knew who he was and what he had done, it bothered her even more.
“I wonder why he didn’t wait for us to come home last night.”
“Who?”
“Bernard Hugo.”
“Well, we’re armed, for one.”
“How would he know that we’re armed?”
“It’s a reasonable assumption.”
“Still, if he was really motivated to kill me …”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to kill you.”
“What else could he want?”
“I don’t know, Lyd,” he said, moving close to her and leaning in to kiss her.
In the melee, Lydia had barely had a chance to acknowledge the way their relationship had changed, what had happened between them last night. But it felt so natural, far more natural than pushing him away for years had felt. It was as if they had slipped into the relationship they were meant to have all along and the only difference was an overwhelming sense of release.
“What’s the plan?” asked Lydia.
“I’m going to take a shower. You make some coffee and then we’ll head out. It’ll be a romantic first date—we’ll look for the Dodge minivan, horn in on a few stakeouts, check out some possible serial-killer hiding spots.”
“You sure know how to treat a woman, Mr. Mark. And then we’ll go park in front of where Juno is staying?”
“Sure.”
As he turned to walk away, Lydia slapped him on the ass. He spun around and looked at her, totally floored by the playful gesture.
She smiled. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He laughed and walked up the stairs to the shower, feeling light with love for her.
As she stood in the pink glow of the kitchen lights, placing ground coffee beans in the filter, she actually felt a little giddy. Then she immediately felt guilty. You have no business acting like a schoolgirl with five people dead and a serial killer on the loose.
The phone rang as she turned the coffeepot on. “Hello?”
“So what are you going to call the book?”
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
“You know who this is.”
The room swirled around her as she realized it was Hugo. She internally kicked herself for not having the line tapped. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it.
“What do you want, Bernard?” she asked, forcing herself to be calm and rational, hoping that Jeffrey would emerge from the shower so he could pick up the other line.
“I want to know what you are going to call the book you write about me.”
“What makes you think I would write a book about you?” she asked, thinking fast.
“Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Write books about killers. I really should thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“I have read everything you have ever written and you have taught me everything I needed to know to become God’s warrior.”
“Is that what you think you are?”
“My son was the sacrificial lamb. He was taken from me and his innocent life lost so that I might do the Lord’s work.”
“And the Lord’s work entailed the killing of five innocent people?”
He laughed and the throaty chuckle made Lydia go cold inside. “ ‘An oracle is within my heart concerning the sinfulness of the wicked,’ ” he said.
“More Psalms, Bernard?”
“I’m surprised you recognize it.”
“Look, why don’t we just end this, Bernard?” she said.
“I fully intend to.”
“Where are you? Let’s get together. You can tell me your side of the story so I have the complete picture for my book. You’ll have a chance to deliver God’s message. Otherwise the whole world is going to think you were just a cold-blooded murderer. Tell me where to meet you.”
There was a silence on the line and Lydia prayed. Please let him be delusional enough to fall for this ridiculously obvious setup.
“You would come alone?”
“Of course.”
“Then come at midnight.”
“Where?”
“Pray, and God will give you the answer.”
The line went dead. She looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly eleven-thirty. She put the phone down in the cradle and before she lifted her hand from the receiver, it rang again.
“Ms. Strong?” It was the quavering voice of an elderly woman.
“Yes?”
“It’s Mrs. Turvey. I’m afraid Juno is gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?” asked Lydia.
“He’s left, taken his cane and gone. I went in to check on him and didn’t find him in bed. I’m so worried.”
“What about the police outside?”
“They said they didn’t see him go.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine,” she lied. “I’ll find him. You stay where you are in case he calls or comes back.”
“All right.”
There was a hurricane in her mind, the possibilities floating like debris. Growing frantic, she pounded on the bathroom door.
“What’s wrong?” called Jeffrey from the shower.
“I just talked to Bernard Hugo. He called here. I think he has Juno.”
“Are you crazy? What are you talking about?” he asked, throwing a towel around his waist and opening the door.
“Jeffrey, I have to go. There’s no time. Follow me to the church with the cops downstairs,” she yelled as she ran down the stairs away from him.
“Lydia, don’t you even think about facing off with this guy on your own.… Lydia—Fuck!”
But she was already gone. Seconds later he heard the Mercedes speed off from the driveway. He was dressed in under five minutes, and after her. If Bernard Hugo didn’t kill her, he was going to do it himself.
Simon Morrow wondered how long it had been since the lights had been turned on in the records tomb of the hospital. He stood at the door with an orderly at his side and flicked the light switch but the fluorescent bulbs didn’t so much as flicker.
“They turned the lights and the temperature control off down here,” the orderly said.
Morrow pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it over the edge of the file cabinets. The place was covered with a thick film of dust. Which made it easy to see the recent path someone had made to the end of the room, almost the length of a football field at least.
“How long has it been since anyone was down here?” Morrow asked the orderly.
“No one ever comes down here. All these records have been computerized.”
The last happy days Bernard Hugo had known were spent working at this hospital. That had been Morrow’s second hunch today. So far, he was two for two. He followed the trail Hugo had left in the dust, his gun drawn, the beam of his flashlight leading him through a maze of file cabinets, and finally to a small area where he found a sleeping bag, some empty, greasy McDonald’s bags,
and a pile of medical textbooks.
“Where are you, Hugo?” he whispered as he picked up one of the texts.
He exhaled a slight whistle as he flipped the pages, seeing that every white space had been inked over with insane images of death and gore. There were gnarled hands with claws dripping blood and innards; an image of Christ on the cross, His torso open, revealing an empty chest cavity; a decapitated dog. Over every image, Hugo had written Juno’s name, inked heavily as if he had raked his pen over the same letters again and again. The image on the inside of the back cover of the book caused Morrow to drop the text to the floor and run, as fast as he could, for the door.
The orderly, who had accompanied the chief to the basement, grudgingly lifted the book to see a sketch of a church. A thunderbolt clapped from the sky and the church was in flames. Inside, a man, woman, and child huddled together happily. On either side of them two figures hung from crosses: a disemboweled woman and a man with his eyes gouged out.
chapter twenty-six
The bark of the trees felt familiar beneath Juno’s sensitive fingertips. The sound of the wind was a song he had heard before. And he felt the clearing on the skin of his face and smelled the flowers from the garden, just as he had as a child. Juno had found his way home. It had taken a while, but it was if the church was homing in on him, pulling him into its arms.
But as soon as he climbed the few low steps, pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and stepped inside, he felt that the energy, which he knew like the feel of his own skin, had been altered. He felt the soft chuckle raise the hair on the back of his neck before he heard it.
Juno did not respond, only lifted a hand to steady himself against the last row of pews. Maybe he had come for this. After all, Lydia had warned him that he might be a target of this maniac. Maybe this was Juno’s cowardly way of committing suicide, unable as he felt to face the world that had been revealed to him.
“It’s all so perfect,” said Bernard Hugo. “We are all truly part of a divine plan. Don’t you think so, Juno? I didn’t even have to come for you, you came to me.”