Enter by the Narrow Gate

by David Carlson

  “Not likely. Too deep. No, a very sharp knife was stuck in the floor right here.”

  “The weapon?”

  “Maybe, but why isn’t there any blood in the hole?” Worthy inserted the edge of the screwdriver in the floor wound.

  “If there’s no blood, wouldn’t that mean that the killer stuck the knife in the floor before he stabbed her?”

  “Maybe,” Worthy said. “But how about afterwards? Didn’t you say she was stabbed in the back, then in her heart?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, so what about this? The killer stabbed her in the back and then wiped the knife blade clean before sticking it right here in the floor.”

  “But why?” Father Fortis asked. The new clue had banished his lightheadedness.

  “I think he sat right about where you are, Nick, over her dead body, and thought about what he wanted to do next.”

  “Before he stabbed her in the heart?” Father Fortis asked.

  “Yes. I think so. And that means the wounds to the heart were an afterthought. So what does that tell us? That’s something that would be interesting to find out. Interesting, that is, if I weren’t here on another case.”

  Father Fortis rose and tested his legs. He looked up at the tiny windows and realized that the sun had set. “Time to go, my friend, if we don’t want to drive off that road in the dark.”

  Worthy grunted noncommittally. He swung the beam around the room again before rising.

  Outside, Worthy reset the primitive lock with a flick of the screwdriver. The two stood for a moment and looked up at the first stars blinking overhead.

  “This place is a taste of meat to a starving guy, Nick. And oh, what a taste it is. I should be working a case like this, not tracking down a college girl off on a lark. With my luck, we’ll find her tomorrow, and by the end of the week I’ll be back doing jail time at the academy.”

  The two walked slowly toward the Jeep. Father Fortis rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Allow me a pious reflection, Christopher. Consider for a moment the two of us—a homicide detective and an overly curious monk from the Midwest. And where do we both find ourselves? In New Mexico, less than a week after a brutal murder. Trust me on this one, my friend. We’re here for a reason.”

  Chapter Four

  The following Monday morning, Worthy pulled into the sheriff’s department parking lot. He reread the note at the bottom of Sera Lacey’s map. “Don’t expect me until after 9:00. I have to drop my son off at school.”

  He stepped out of the Jeep and gazed up at the brilliant blue sky. Detroit would kill for a day like this. And the scenery …. Color surrounded him, from the snowcapped mountains reaching up into the clear air to the green forests that surrendered at the lower elevation to the desert floor.

  Inside the one-story building, Worthy waited patiently as the receptionist handled a call in a mix of English and Spanish. Between callers, she responded to Worthy’s request by pointing down a sunny hallway. He found the door for the Child Protection team and read the name, Lieutenant Sera Lacey, stenciled below it.

  S-e-r-a? He thought again of the policewoman’s flashing black hair and wondered about the name. Was it Hispanic or Native American? A silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass, and suddenly the door swung open to reveal the striking woman of yesterday.

  Smiling, she ushered him in to where a short, muscular, middle-aged man was rising stiffly from a chair. With a strong grip, Sheriff Cortini introduced himself. He sported a flattop military style, but his shirt was open. On his feet were cowboy boots tipped with polished silver. Worthy sat down, the knot of his tie pulling on his neck.

  “Welcome to Santa Fe, Lieutenant. First time out here?”

  “It’s my first time out west, period,” Worthy replied.

  Sheriff Cortini leaned back in his chair. “Now, my family is from Chicago, originally. My dad was stationed out here after the war, and then they stayed. That makes me still a newcomer.”

  It was all easy talk, but Worthy could feel Cortini sizing him up.

  “Sera tells me you’re staying out at St. Mary’s. Seems you got a friend out there.”

  Worthy nodded. “A monk from Ohio. He’s out there on what they call a sabbatical.”

  “Ah, an academic. My momma always told me I should be a teacher. Lately around here, I think I should’ve listened. I’ve never been up to St. Mary’s myself, but I hear it’s beautiful.” The sheriff took a moment to rub the knee of a trouser leg. “Lots of commotion up there right now. Could be interesting, don’t you think?”

  Worthy paused, weighing his words. “Other than Sunday services yesterday morning, it’s been pretty quiet up there. No one knocked on my door to turn himself in.”

  Cortini laughed easily. “But you are a homicide detective, right?”

  And based on this interrogation, so are you, Worthy thought.

  “What I am is a cop who’s been poorly assigned,” Worthy replied. “The father of our missing girl happens to be a big shot in Detroit, so he threw his weight around. And here I am.”

  The sheriff eyed him for a moment before nodding. “Parents go pretty nuts when a kid runs off. I don’t care how old she is. Which brings us to your fax, Lieutenant. We’re not quite sure how this Victor Martinez ties in.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure he does. The girl’s mother caught me just as I was leaving for the airport, all excited because she’d remembered that this Victor Martinez lives out here.”

  Sera leaned forward in her chair. “Your fax said Victor and the VanBruskman girl were students together in Detroit. Does the mother think they were more than that?”

  Worthy shrugged. “Lovers? I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

  “Well, that’s the first that we heard about Victor Martinez. Do you believe the mother, Lieutenant?” Cortini added.

  It was both a perceptive question and one that invited Worthy to offer an opinion. This guy is good, he thought.

  “Her story sounded a bit convenient, that’s all,” Worthy replied. “The father hands me a credit card, and my captain tells me to take the first plane I can get. I’m rushed off before I can even go through the girl’s room, and then at the last minute the mother waltzes into my office and hands me this name.”

  Worthy wondered if he sounded like a whiner. “I don’t do missing persons, so maybe I’m wrong, but shouldn’t we be looking into why she might have run away in the first place?”

  Sera Lacey answered. “So when the mother told you her daughter was running toward this Victor Martinez, you wondered the opposite, right?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I want to know is if she’s running from something in Detroit.”

  Cortini rose and walked to the window. “That means Victor Martinez might be a false lead. Yet you’re here in Santa Fe, not in Detroit.” He looked over in Sera’s direction. “Where should he begin?”

  “I think Chimayó,” Sera offered. “It’s the last place the group visited. Besides, one of the other students said he saw Ellie looking out the door a couple times.”

  “And, according to the folder, she vanished the next morning,” Worthy added. “So we start at this Chimayó place. Are you coming along?” he asked the policewoman.

  Sera Lacey started to answer when the phone rang. Excusing herself, she turned away from the two men.

  Sheriff Cortini leaned against the wall. “Sera interviewed the professor and the other college students before they flew back. And she’s checked all the hospitals and clinics to see if the girl could have shown up there under another name. But nothing. Then, let me see. Yes, she called all the other places the group visited.”

  Worthy knew all this from the folder, but recognized the message of support. His own captain in Detroit could learn a lesson or two from this guy.

  Cortini shook his head slowly. “Hell, I saw that professor. He was one sorry sight, let me tell you. A real young guy. He could have been a college kid himself. I suppose he’s in a sh
itload of trouble. Maybe I should be glad I didn’t become a teacher. But anyway, you might pick up something else out at Chimayó.”

  Sheriff Cortini pushed himself from the wall and approached Worthy. “It was good to meet you, Lieutenant. You probably want to get back to your family, so let’s all hope we find the girl soon.”

  Worthy rose to shake the captain’s hand. “What is this Chimayó—an Indian site, some museum?”

  “Well, now, that’s an interesting question. Chimayó is a bit of a lot of things. It’s a small town, even by our standards, but it also has a very unusual church,” the sheriff said. “People react to it in all sorts of ways.”

  Sera Lacey hung up the phone and rose to her feet. “Sorry. My son forgot his lunch. I caught a bit of what you were talking about. I’d say Chimayó is whatever people allow it to be. For some, it’s a freak show. For pilgrims, it’s a place of healing.” Worthy caught the challenge in her voice as she added, “You’ll have to decide for yourself, Lieutenant.”

  The sheriff raised his hands in mock surrender. “Like I said, Chimayó is controversial. Me, I’m just an outsider.”

  Which means the policewoman isn’t, Worthy thought. Cortini and Sera waited, as if it were Worthy’s turn to choose a side. Cops had a habit of disagreeing over the smallest matters, from advancement test questions to personal weapons preference, but an old church?

  He looked out the window at a car-shaped cloud disappearing over a mountain crest.

  “All I care about is what Ellie VanBruskman made of the place,” he said. “By the way, what did you decide about coming with me?”

  The woman’s eyes fell to her desk. “Why don’t we do this, Lieutenant? You check out Chimayó, and I’ll run out to Acomita, where the Martinez boy has some family. If the two kids are lovers, someone has probably seen them together. Families are pretty tight out here.”

  Worthy left the office with the sheriff. He had a good feeling about this man, that he was the type of superior who said what he was thinking, someone not threatened by his arrival. But with Sera Lacey, he felt like he’d just failed a test.

  A hand-painted sign greeted Worthy and Father Fortis as they pulled into the parking lot of El Sanctuario de Chimayó. “Lock Vehicles. Do Not Leave Valuables in Sight.” Pretty slim pickings today, Father Fortis thought as he glanced over at the only other vehicle, a rusted VW bus with Colorado plates.

  “This isn’t exactly what I expected,” Father Fortis said as he peered up at the adobe church with its corrugated roof and cramped courtyard. El Sanctuario had been described in a brochure at the monastery as the “Lourdes of North America,” and so he’d anticipated something more along the lines of the stunning St. Francis Cathedral in downtown Santa Fe. It was hard to imagine this small church holding more than eighty to ninety people, yet Father Fortis knew from the brochure that pilgrims from as far away as Guatemala made the journey during Holy Week, when crowds swelled into the thousands.

  “The church is in better shape than the town,” Worthy added, nodding toward the adobe houses and dusty streets.

  “I’m not so sure,” Father Fortis disagreed. In Greece, even the smallest and poorest villages basked in the glow of a whitewashed church set on the highest point. The town of Chimayó, however, with its shacks and trailers, seemed intent on dragging the famous church down into the dirt—miraculous dirt though it might be.

  It had been a desire to escape from the monastery, as much as his own curiosity, that had prompted Father Fortis to accompany Worthy to Chimayó. Only that morning he’d found a handwritten note in his mail slot, reading, “You are not wanted here. You are not needed here.”

  What troubled him the most was not the sentiment. Much as at his own St. Simeon’s, there were always hardliners who opposed ecumenism. It had only been since 1964 that the Orthodox and Catholic churches had dropped their long-standing anathemas against each other. Fifty years was a long time for most institutions, but not for the church. What bothered him about the note was the knowledge that whoever wrote it had to know of his conversation with Abbot Timothy. He’d wanted to keep his eyes open around St. Mary’s. But now, he realized, someone had an eye on him.

  The two men entered the church through its two carved doors and immediately found themselves crammed into a small anteroom. Overcome with a wave of claustrophobia, Father Fortis pushed against a smaller, inner door, and the two entered a dim, windowless room.

  Even before his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Father Fortis felt the cold of the stone floor. Then, as if emerging from a fog, his eyes found the ornately carved altar at the front. Tall spines of red and pink, like barber poles, framed compartments from where saints peeked out. In the altar’s center, in a small opening, a slumped Christ, bathed in his own blood, hung suspended in death. Above the crucifix was a painting, unknown and puzzling to Father Fortis, portraying two forearms crossing each other, both hands bearing bleeding nail wounds.

  Worthy was gazing at other statues on the side wall.

  “A penny for your thoughts, my friend,” Father Fortis whispered.

  “Not with those folks able to hear.”

  The priest peered forward and realized his friend was right. Three people, a couple and a nun, were talking quietly by the side of the front altar. Anticipating a wait, Father Fortis ducked into the back row of benches, knelt, and crossed himself.

  The strange note under his door clouded his thoughts, and he prayed fitfully, his words like heavy boulders refusing to budge. In the middle of his petitions, he caught a bit of the nun’s presentation from the front. “El Sanctuario was built in 1810, although it had been a sacred site for the Indians ….”

  He shifted his knees on the cold floor and started his prayer again. But as before, his intentions were trumped by voices, this time from the young woman. “Sister, we’re not Catholics and don’t know how this works.”

  Father Fortis peeked toward the altar, where the silent member of the three, a man with shoulder-length hair dangling over his denim jacket, had encircled the taller woman’s waist with an arm. The woman leaned on him, as if she might faint.

  Father Fortis glanced at Worthy, who was sitting a few seats down the row and seemed to be inspecting the carved ceiling. What brought people to places like this was desperation, something too close to superstition for a man with Worthy’s stance on faith.

  Up at the front, the nun edged toward a side door, stammering a bit as she explained that the miracles of Chimayó, as at any holy place, were rare and followed no set rules. The couple, however, remained planted by the altar.

  “There was this one crippled child, a real wailer, about three weeks ago,” the nun said, speaking from a tiny doorframe. “His family couldn’t budge him from this room in here, which is where the blessed dirt is. My Spanish isn’t great, but I could tell he was begging Jesus and Our Lady to heal him.”

  “Go on, Sister,” the woman pleaded breathlessly.

  “Nobody was with the boy at the time, but apparently he came out crying and threw himself down in front of the altar.”

  Worthy cleared his throat before rising from the pew. He walked toward a table in the back that was stacked with books.

  “I’m not sure we understand, ma’am,” the man said.

  “What I’m saying is that the boy walked into this room on crutches, but came out without them.”

  The woman hurried to the door and peeked into the room, as if the boy were still in there. Father Fortis hoped Worthy wasn’t listening.

  But the nun’s next comment surprised the priest. “I must tell you that the boy’s crutches disappeared the next day.”

  The nun paused, but the couple stood motionless before her. “My dears, what I’m trying to say is that nobody can predict what happens here. Yes, some people are healed, and only God knows why. The reality is that most people experience nothing in terms of physical healing or maybe just a temporary remission—”

  “But you said the boy ran to the altar!” the woman prote
sted, grabbing the nun’s arm as if to save them both from falling over a cliff. The nun patted the woman’s hand, edging the couple through the doorway.

  Father Fortis and Worthy approached the altar, even as the nun’s voice echoed from the side room.

  “You have to believe me,” she said. “I have absolutely nothing to do with what happens here. It’s your faith that’s important, not me.” The couple didn’t respond, and the nun added curtly, “Please don’t feel that you have to take so much of the dirt.”

  Father Fortis studied the altar before him, noting the votive tokens, the tin and brass arms, legs, and hearts that littered the floor.

  “When I think of all the people who come here, my friend, and why they come, I can’t help but feel we’re standing in a very sad place. A very sad place, indeed,” he whispered.

  Worthy didn’t respond.

  “Perhaps the church is a bit overdone. Yes, I admit that,” Father Fortis continued, sensing Worthy’s objections. “But when I look at these little trinkets and all the people needing a miracle, I see how close hope is to despair. Yes, sometimes they are frighteningly close.”

  Again, Worthy said nothing.

  The nun popped her head out of the side room and rolled her eyes at Father Fortis. Worthy broke his silence by introducing himself and Father Fortis and explaining their mission. The nun seemed disappointed as she walked toward the front bench and sat down wearily.

  “As I told the policewoman on the phone, you’re asking about a day during Lent. Good Lord, it’s wall to wall in here from February to April. All I remember from those days is the crowds waiting outside and the smell of the people jammed into this old place. It gets pretty ripe.” The nun’s nose twitched at the memory.

  Worthy reached into the folder and drew out Ellie VanBruskman’s picture. “Do you remember this girl?”

  The nun took the photo and shook her head. “No. Sorry. I can only imagine how worried her parents must be.”

  “She’s not exactly a child, Sister.”

  “Lieutenant, have you ever run away and not known where you’re headed?”