“Not bad,” she said.
“For an old guy, you mean.”
“No, for an Easterner,” she said, grinning.
Worthy studied the crooked path that they’d descended. “I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to hear your wife and children crying and not be able to do anything.”
“I’ll tell you what I believe happened. Those who jumped thought that love would give them wings. Those who stayed on top chose to die where they’d always lived. Love versus security.”
Worthy stamped the dust from his boots. “That’s not enough of a choice.”
Sera looked at him for a moment before beginning the walk back to the parking lot. “Those were the only choices life gave them.”
And what choices did Ellie VanBruskman see before she ran away? he wondered. Was she running to Victor, this “little priest,” in hopes of finding love, security, or something else?
In the darkness following the night service of Vigils at St. Mary’s, Father Fortis remained in his assigned stall and watched as the columns of monks processed toward the sanctuary altar. Each bowed deeply from the waist before the abbot, then turned to the icon of the Virgin Mary to bow again before filing out into the night.
He picked out the distinctive slap of Father Linus’s sandals at the rear of the line, and the old monk’s parting words from that morning came to mind: “Sister Anna’s murder was terrible, but you need to know that it wasn’t the only attack that has taken place on one of our old moradas. But please. I ask you to say nothing about the santo until next week.”
“Why next week?” Father Fortis had asked.
“I want you to meet the hermano mayor, the governing brother at a morada, a Penitente meeting house. Please, it’s only a few days.”
Father Fortis’s heart had skipped a beat at the time, but now he wondered if it would take the police that long to link the murder with the Penitentes. A routine search at the county courthouse should show that the retreat house had previously been a morada. And how long would it take the police to figure out the meaning of the seven wounds between Sister Anna’s breasts?
Sitting alone in the dark, he gazed out of the massive window at the rock face. Moonlight promised to break free of the crest line at any moment and illuminate the room. As he rose from his seat with thoughts of returning to bed, he heard a faint creaking sound from the balcony above. That was the area reserved for guests, but the monastery had closed its guesthouse to all but Worthy and himself until the investigation was over.
He sat quietly, half expecting to see a sneaky reporter’s head peeking over the railing. He saw and heard nothing, yet something or someone was definitely there. He could feel it. Rising silently, he edged his way to the back of the chapel and to the stairs leading up to the balcony.
He ascended cautiously, wondering if he was overreacting. Couldn’t the sound simply be the evening breeze as it flowed down the valley?
He reached the top stair and peered into the dark balcony. He waited, but again heard nothing. At that moment, the moon broke free of the canyon wall outside and flooded the chapel with light. In that flash, Father Fortis saw three things. One, exploding in the clear desert night air, the bands of color on the far canyon wall. How odd, he thought, to see pinks, reds, even browns at this time of night. Two, in the same instant, he saw that the balcony was empty, its rows of hand-hewn benches bare except for a stack of daily missals. And three, he saw the door at the other end of the balcony swaying slightly.
He hurried between the rows of benches, his robes sending the missals flying. Pushing on the door, he saw the top of another stairwell leading downward into an even greater darkness. Somewhere below, he heard another door close and a key turn in a lock.
Chapter Eight
Can’t reach you. Still say you don’t need cell phone? Return ASAP for consultation with VanBruskmans. New evidence. —Captain Spicer.
Worthy stood under the flickering light in his room and reread the fax. What new evidence? he asked himself. In the bathroom, he poured a glass of water and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Grimy streaks of dust from the Acoma mesa lined his forehead and a band of salty perspiration coated his starched collar. “What new evidence?” he repeated, this time out loud. Dammit, I’ve been here less than a week, and I’m the one with new evidence.
Worthy knew that his frustration was partially his own fault. Captain Spicer’s terseness was his way of making Worthy pay for refusing to use a cell phone. Spicer hated faxing as much as Worthy hated cell phones. He undressed, and stepping into the shower, stood under the stream of water as he tried to guess what his captain was referring to. Ever since the Church of Chimayó, he’d suspected that he’d have to go back to Detroit. That is, unless the VanBruskman girl turned up in a hospital or had simply been on a lark and now wanted to be found. But now Ellie’s letters to Victor suggested that Detroit held clues to the boy as well.
The first letter, a Christmas card written within weeks of Victor’s late-semester withdrawal from Allgemein College, had hardly been noteworthy. Ellie wrote that she missed Victor, that she hoped she had passed her Spanish final without his help, and that she wanted to hear from him soon. The only puzzling line had been Ellie’s statement that she dreaded the upcoming Christmas break, when she had to spend time with “these old people pretending to be parents.”
Worthy turned off the water and grabbed a towel. The girl’s comment could mean nothing. It was the type of crack his own daughter Allyson might make about him.
Brushing his hair, he turned his thoughts to the second letter. Written on pink stationery with a unicorn at the top, the letter had shared the girl’s excitement about joining the college trip to New Mexico. The date of the visit to Chimayó was underlined twice in the itinerary, and below that Ellie had added a postscript: “You were right to leave. The college will never admit a thing.”
“What’s that about?” Sera had asked after he read the line to her in the car. The postscript made it sound as if something had happened to drive the boy away from Allgemein, a prestigious private liberal-arts college. He wondered if the grandmother knew the reason and had chosen not to tell them. He ruled out the mother knowing. A parent as worried as she would have told them everything. That meant that Worthy would have to find the answer in Detroit.
After a restless night of sleep and an early breakfast in the refectory, Worthy sat on the balcony of Father Fortis’s room and shared the news. Below the balcony, two monks approached from opposite ends of the cloister and passed each other with only a brief nod before proceeding on their separate ways.
“Let me drive you to the airport,” Father Fortis whispered. “There are a few developments I want to share with you. Privately, I mean.”
“Of course.”
Father Fortis’s hand stroked his beard before coming to rest on his pectoral cross. Something is troubling him, Worthy thought. And it wasn’t hard to understand why his friend didn’t want to say anything here. Initially Worthy had been impressed by St. Mary’s quiet and solitude, but with each hour spent here, he sensed that people were listening in on that silence.
Father Fortis crossed his arms and stared out at the desert. “And how long do you think you’ll be gone, Christopher?”
“I’d say it’s going to take two days, three at the most, to finish the interviews. Beyond that, it all depends on what the hell the fax means by ‘new evidence.’ ”
“You say that as if you don’t believe it. Are you still suspicious of the parents?”
“If I am, I’m not sure I have a right to be,” Worthy replied. “The mother put us on the track of Victor Martinez, and that turns out to be a real lead. So why don’t I trust her? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of my ex-mother-in-law.”
Worthy looked out at the huge white clouds building over the mountains and a path leading from a cloister gate into the desert. Perhaps the path led to the retreat house, the murder site, a good twelve miles, according t
o Father Fortis’s map. Much too far to walk. He thought of the nun out there alone for nearly a week. Someone had driven her out there. Could it have been the same monk who’d found her body?
In the Jeep, Father Fortis said nothing until they hit the smooth blacktop of Route 503, a good six miles from the curious ears at the monastery.
“You’d tell me if I were making a fool of myself, wouldn’t you?” he blurted out.
For the second time that morning, Worthy saw worry on Father Fortis’s face. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Father Fortis hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “All of a sudden, it’s like I have a sign around my neck. ‘Father Nick—boy detective.’ ”
“Slow down. What happened?”
Father Fortis took a deep breath. “It was after the Compline service last night. I stayed for a few minutes so I could pray alone. That’s when I heard someone above me in the balcony.”
“Are you saying someone was spying on you?”
Father Fortis shrugged, the grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white. “I think so, but they were gone by the time I got up there.”
Worthy considered the news. “So it was someone who could move quickly. Not one of the older monks, then.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. But the mystery man clearly knew his way around.”
The Jeep struggled as it tried to pass a semi and succeeded only when Father Fortis punched the accelerator. The engine registered its protest.
“And there’s something else,” Father Fortis said. “I stayed and talked with Father Linus yesterday after you left.”
“I know. You already told me. That business about the nun’s wounds and that weird group.”
“There’s more, Christopher. What I didn’t tell you was that he asked me not to say anything about the whole business until next week.” He gave Worthy a panicky look. “Good Lord, my friend. You didn’t say anything to that policewoman about the Penitentes, did you?”
“No. But what’s the big deal about next week?”
“I’m to meet one of the old leaders of the group.”
“Oh, God, Nick. You know he’s going to be as crazy as Linus, don’t you?”
“No, I’ll meet with him,” Father Fortis replied firmly. “Linus knows something. But here’s my problem. If the police do their job, they’re going to figure out the connection pretty quickly. So part of me wonders if I’m making a mistake not telling someone—such as the abbot. If I don’t tell him and he finds out that I already knew, he’ll think I betrayed him. But if I tell him, Linus won’t ever trust me again.”
Worthy pondered his friend’s dilemma. “Okay, here’s a thought,” he said. “After dropping me at the airport, you’re going back through Santa Fe, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why not stop by Sera Lacey’s office and ask her advice?”
Father Fortis shot an angry glance at Worthy. “Your partner? But she’s a cop. Didn’t you hear a word I said?”
“Calm down, Nick. Sera will know what to do with the information. My guess is that she’ll honor your secret.”
“You sound pretty sure about that. How do you know I can trust her?”
“Because I do,” Worthy said. “It’s the first thing you figure out about a new partner.”
Father Fortis was silent for a moment before sighing deeply. “Okay, then, I will. Thanks. That’s one less thing to worry about.”
“You have more?”
“Not exactly a worry, and I’m sorry about snapping at you. No, it’s simply another note I found this morning, this one from the abbot. He wants me to meet with Sister Anna’s confessor, a Father Bernard. He’s one of those tall, lean monks with this head of wild hair. He looks a bit like an old rock star. Handsome, I suppose, in his way, but not in your league,” Father Fortis said with a smile.
Worthy narrowed his eyes on the road ahead as he played with the new idea. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
“Did you hear me, Christopher?”
“What? Yes, I heard you. You said Sister Anna had a confessor. Every Catholic has to go to confession, right? And really devout Catholics go regularly, don’t they?”
“Of course. Confession is standard procedure for monks and nuns. So I’m sure Sister Anna—”
“I’m not talking about Sister Anna,” Worthy interrupted. “Did I tell you what Victor Martinez’s mother calls him?”
“No.”
“Padrelito. Sera tells me it means ‘little priest.’ ”
Father Fortis pulled on his beard. “Ah-ha. The faithful altar boy type, the kind mothers and priests mark for the priesthood. You think the boy’s priest out here might know something?”
“Not here, Nick. Back in Detroit. Something happened, something pretty major it seems, at the college. Whatever it was, it drove the boy back here.” Worthy paused. “Victor also told his mother he was being followed. I’m thinking a boy with that kind of nickname would have run right to his priest in case of trouble.”
“At the college, you’re saying,” Father Fortis said.
“Right. A Catholic chaplain, if Allgemein has one.”
“Given the number of Catholics in Detroit, they must. But good luck getting him to talk, Christopher. Confessors promise confidentiality, you know.”
Worthy’s brain was already spinning with plans. His plane wouldn’t land until after eight o’clock, Detroit time. First thing in the morning, he’d head for the college to interview Dr. Wormley, the professor who’d led the group. It should be easy to run by the chaplain’s office after that. The meeting with the VanBruskmans could wait.
“Christopher, I swear your brain is already back in Detroit. I said you’re going to have a tough time getting around the vow of confidentiality.”
Worthy sat up, narrowing his focus on the highway, as if to urge the plodding Jeep forward. Gone were any regrets about having to go back to Detroit. In forty-eight hours, he would very likely have answers to both mysteries—Ellie’s and Victor’s.
Trust is a chain forged a link at a time, Father Fortis told himself as he knocked on the door of the Child Protection Office. Father Linus had trusted him with the clue about the santo, he had trusted Worthy, and Worthy had encouraged him to trust Sera Lacey. But wasn’t a chain only as strong as its weakest link? How could a conscientious policewoman not pass the clue along?
The door opened, with Sera Lacey’s face showing surprise. “Father Fortis?”
“Am I disturbing you, my dear?”
“Not at all. Please come in.”
Her office struck him as small, not much more than a desk, two filing cabinets, and three chairs, but the walls were brightly decorated. His eye immediately lit on a primitive crucifix surrounded by faded photos of old men, women, and children. Below the cloud of photos was a delicate tile of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He sighed deeply and felt his body relax into the chair. Yes, he knew something important about this woman. Perhaps he could leave his secret with her.
“I assume Chris got off okay,” she said as she made her way to her chair behind the desk.
“Chris? Oh, you mean Christopher,” he replied. “Yes, yes. No problem. In fact, by the time we reached the airport he seemed eager, almost excited, to get back for his interviews. And you? What will you do while he’s gone?”
“Tackle these,” she replied, pointing to a stack of folders. “They’re the more normal runaways, if any child can be called that. And I’m going out to Chimayó to interview Victor Martinez’s uncle.” She caught Father Fortis’s eye. “Chris told me you went out there with him.”
“To Chimayó? Yes, I did. Not the kind of place a person forgets.”
“Not everyone takes to it,” she said, her gaze still on him. “I understand you had a hand in finding the book—the one with the girl’s message to Victor.”
He felt his face redden. “Oh, I think it’s fairer to say the book wanted to be found.”
The two sat
in silence for a moment before Sera smiled. “Okay, Father. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
Father Fortis gripped the prayer cord on his wrist and gazed up again at the crucifix. “Christopher said I could trust you with something, something I know.”
Sera leaned back in her chair. “Something about the murder, maybe?”
Father Fortis nodded. “I can see from the crucifix and the Virgin of Guadalupe on your wall that you’re Catholic. Perhaps you’ve heard of a group called the Penitentes.”
Sera rose and closed the door before moving to the lone window.
“Chris said that you should tell me something about the Penitentes?” she asked, her back to him. “I’m surprised.”
Father Fortis shook his head. “No, I heard it from someone else. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m at liberty to tell you that person’s name. So no, it wasn’t Christopher. In fact, it would be fairer to say that he had a pretty tough time with something he heard about the group.”
Still with her back to him, she said, “What exactly did he hear?”
“Someone at St. Mary’s took it upon himself to tell him about their Good Friday practices, at least the practices of the most traditional brotherhoods.”
“Oh, I see,” Sera said softly. “Yes, that would be tough for Chris. I get the feeling that there’s a lot in New Mexico our friend is going to struggle with.”
“No doubt, my dear, but you should know something about Christopher. He’ll always tell you exactly what he thinks, and he isn’t afraid to change his mind. I’m wondering if your colleagues down the hall would be as fair.”
Sera didn’t respond to the challenge as she returned to her desk. “Am I to understand that you have information linking the murder with the Penitentes?”
Father Fortis took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “The place where her body was found, the retreat house, was once one of their … I forget the term.”
Sera leaned forward. “A morada, Father. I wondered about that when I saw the windows in the photos. It may take the guys on the case a while to make the connection—that is, unless the Penitente brothers left something behind.”
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