Enter by the Narrow Gate

by David Carlson

  “They removed our Lord, but left the cross alone. How strange.”

  “Strange indeed,” Father Linus replied, looking pleased. “The police dismissed that, said it wasn’t important. Hah! The Brotherhood is devoted to the suffering of our Lord. It is our very reason for existing.”

  Father Fortis stared again at the photos. Father Linus had made a good point, but it did not explain everything. Who but a Penitente would mutilate a nun’s body to mimic a favorite santo of the Brotherhood? He looked up to find the elder’s milky eye boring into him. He looked down at the man’s hands and saw the telltale nail prints.

  “Father Linus, you said a moment ago that there’s more these men want me to know?”

  The old monk gave him a searching look. “Do you believe us, then?”

  “I can’t say that. But I want them to know they can trust me. Please tell them that.”

  Father Linus’s eyes filled with tears. “Nicholas, I thought you could tell. The old one is my brother. I mean my real brother.”

  Father Fortis looked from Father Linus to the one with the cataract. Yes, of course, he thought. There were marked similarities between their faces.

  In a low voice, Father Linus spoke in Spanish with his brother and the others. The four whispered together; then Father Linus’s brother stepped forward.

  “They have carreta and La Muerta,” he said in a wavering voice.

  “What does he mean?” Father Fortis whispered.

  “The Death skeleton and the cart. The ones who vandalized the place in Colorado stole them both,” the old monk explained.

  “But you already told me that,” Father Fortis protested.

  “No, you don’t understand, Nicholas. La Muerta is still missing, but the police … they have the cart in their possession.”

  “What?”

  “Thank God they don’t know what it is. If they did, they’d draw the wrong conclusion.”

  A shadowy memory rose in Father Fortis’s mind. “What does this cart look like?”

  “Wooden, with railing all around it. Wooden wheels, too.”

  “About four feet long?” Father Fortis asked.

  “Yes. I was wondering if you’d remember seeing it.”

  “It was along the back wall in the photos of Sister Anna.”

  “The killer put flower pots in it! The bastardo steals from us and then puts the cart near her body. Just to incriminate us!”

  And he’s doing a good job, Father Fortis thought. Didn’t Father Linus realize that the clue proved the killer had to be some twisted Penitente?

  “But Linus, how can you be sure it’s the same cart?” he asked. “Maybe the one in the retreat house was left there years ago.”

  Father Linus looked up at his brother. “No, the one next to Sister Anna’s body was from that morada. My brother and I have known that cart our entire lives. You see, we helped our father build it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Worthy drove slowly through his old neighborhood. The trees that the neighborhood association had planted in the boulevards had noticeably grown since he’d last been here, and judging from a tricycle in the neighbor’s yard, old Mrs. Davis had finally sold her place.

  He glanced briefly at his old house and continued down the street. There were still fifteen minutes to kill before he’d said that he’d arrive. He drove by the grade school where he’d attended PTA meetings for both Allyson and Amy. That seemed a lifetime ago.

  Circling the block, he parked in front of his house and walked slowly to the side door. He stopped to kick at a tuft of crabgrass growing in a crack in the driveway. Was it too much to hope for, after dealing with the VanBruskmans, that Allyson would be civil to him?

  For some reason, he thought of the santo of the suffering Virgin Mary in Father Linus’s room. A mother with knives piercing her heart. What a perfect description of a divorced parent.

  To his relief, it was Susan, not Allyson, who answered his knock. “You’re early,” she whispered with a slight tremor in her voice.

  Worthy took a step back on the stoop and gazed down at his dusty shoes. A bit of New Mexico, he thought. “Is it a crisis if I’m five minutes early?”

  Susan blocked the way into the house. “Are you in trouble, Chris?”

  “Not all that much. Why?”

  But he knew. After leaving the VanBruskmans, he’d had to endure ten minutes in Captain Spicer’s car. Assuring Worthy of his continued confidence in him, Spicer had managed to make it clear that the letter from the missing girl concerned him.

  “The letter has to be bogus,” Worthy replied. “Ellie’s face is plastered everywhere out there.”

  “But the handwriting matches.”

  “I’m not saying she didn’t write it. What I’m saying is that the girl isn’t somewhere right under our noses in Santa Fe. Hell, I’ve only been out there a week. Give me some time to prove it.”

  “Chris, Chris, forget VanBruskman’s comment about the two weeks. I never agreed to that,” Spicer assured him.

  No, Worthy knew the deadline had indeed been promised. And because of that, he’d stopped before coming over to his old house to call Sera. But even that hadn’t gone right. The policewoman wasn’t in her office, so he’d left instructions on an answering machine for her to check all the area post offices. “Ask them if they remember a letter turning up with smudges all over it,” he’d said.

  “Are you sure you’re not in trouble?” Susan repeated.

  “Spicer called here, didn’t he?”

  “This morning,” she said, still standing in the doorway. “He said he knew you were back in town, but you hadn’t checked in.”

  He felt his face flush. He couldn’t believe Spicer had called his ex-wife. “Look, I’ve seen him, and we’re just not the best of friends. Okay?”

  Susan opened the door and led him toward the kitchen by the back way, avoiding the stairs.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, Chris, but I just got home myself and don’t know what mood she’s in,” Susan whispered. “All I know is that she’s leaving for work in a few minutes.”

  So if I hadn’t come early, I’d have missed her, Worthy reasoned. Allyson had planned things pretty well. As he entered the kitchen, his younger daughter, Amy, jumped up from the table and threw her arms around his waist.

  “Daddy, Daddy, show me what you brought me.”

  “Easy, greedy Gus,” he teased, squeezing her tightly. “How are you, pumpkin?”

  Before she could reply, another voice spoke from behind him.

  “You’re early.”

  He turned to see Allyson leaning, arms folded, against the doorway to the kitchen. He hardly recognized her with the short hair and dark eyeliner. Had she finally realized how much she took after his side of the family?

  Allyson gave her sister a look of utter boredom. “Amy, you are such a child. No one gets a gift without some reason.”

  Amy disentangled herself from her father. “A trip is still a reason. Isn’t it, Daddy?”

  “Sure, sure, pumpkin,” he said. “I got you something.”

  Allyson walked to the refrigerator. “You don’t get it, Amy,” she said, turning her back on both of them to hunt for some food. “Dad doesn’t bring us presents because he takes trips, but because Mom lets him come back over here.” Yogurt cup in hand, she faced Worthy. “Mom says you’ve been looking for another missing girl.”

  He sat down at the end of the table but decided to leave his coat on. Here they were, the four of them, sharing the same room, just as they had not long ago. Even the tension in the air was the same, except it used to come from Susan. Now it was from his older daughter. Would Amy be next?

  He waited for Susan to say something, to show him how things worked with Allyson these days. Instead, his ex-wife left the room, calling back to Allyson to let her know when she needed to leave.

  Amy plopped down on her father’s lap and scrunched up her face at her sister.

  “I don’t care what y
ou say. Daddy always brings me a present.”

  Allyson rolled her eyes and turned back toward the refrigerator.

  Worthy reached into his pocket and brought out the small wrapped box. “Sorry, honey, it’s only something small from the airport gift shop.”

  Eleven-year-old Amy tore the treasure open, laughing victoriously as she held up the small porcelain horse. “See, Ally, see? Thank you, Daddy. Did you ride one in Mexico?”

  Worthy laughed despite himself and despite Allyson. “Believe it or not, they drive cars out there. And I was in New Mexico.”

  Susan poked her head back in the room. “A horse? Oh, that’s cute, sweetie.” Jangling her car keys, she said to Allyson, “Time to go?”

  Allyson walked past her father without speaking, but stopped and whirled about in the doorway. Worthy braced himself.

  “Dad didn’t ride a horse because that would mean he took time off work.” She paused for a second to reload. “If you got me the matching cowgirl, I don’t want it.”

  Without thinking, Worthy reached into his pocket and threw the plastic bag halfway across the room. It landed at Allyson’s feet with a soft thud.

  “What’s this shit?” Allyson asked, standing motionless.

  It felt a scene out of an old home movie, all of them in the same old space, only this time he couldn’t remember his part. “It’s a bag of dirt.”

  Bewilderment crossed Allyson’s face, even as she reached down and picked it up. Worthy caught Susan’s panicked expression even as he felt his own heart pounding up into his throat. What am I doing? he thought.

  Allyson opened the little bag and reached in, as if looking for something buried. She extracted a dusty finger and held it up for her father to see. “So you got me a bag of dirt and Amy got a stupid horse?”

  “It’s magic dirt from a place called Chimayó. Although I guess magic isn’t the right word,” he muttered. He took a deep breath and pressed on, “People out there call it healing dirt. They come from thousands of miles away for it.” For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw pain in her eyes. He looked away, wondering what torture the psychiatrist would make of his impulsive act.

  He waited for the door to slam, for a scream, or for the dirt to be poured over his head. Instead he heard a tremor in Allyson’s voice. “What’s it heal? I mean, are we talking pimples or world hunger?”

  Worthy shrugged. His pounding heart made speaking impossible. Amy twisted off his lap and set her horse on the table as if to make it clear who’d gotten the real gift.

  “Well, Dad, am I supposed to be impressed?” Allyson challenged as she put the bag of dirt in her pocket.

  Susan’s hands circled behind Allyson, mouthing to Worthy to please let them leave.

  But Allyson crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame, waiting for an answer. Worthy could feel something ready to snap, either in the room or in himself.

  “No, not impressed,” he managed to say, looking her in the eye.

  The exchange seemed to puzzle Allyson as much as it did Worthy. She started to say something, turned as if to walk away, then shot a glance back at her father. “That’s good, because I’m not.”

  “Then it looks like the two of us finally agree on something, Ally,” he said, not daring to look up.

  A half hour later, Worthy sat with Amy in the backyard swing waiting for Susan to return. When she arrived, she walked slowly out to them and asked Amy to go in to watch TV. Worthy stopped the swing with his legs when his ex-wife sat down at the other end.

  “Look, Susan, I don’t know why I did that with the dirt,” he said. He wondered what his bizarre stunt would cost him. Would the psychiatrist cut him off completely?

  Susan sat silently. He imagined old Mrs. Davis looking over the fence and thinking how the two of them sitting in the swing together looked like old times. But Mrs. Davis was gone, and it wasn’t old times.

  “I honestly don’t know what possessed me,” he confessed. “I didn’t even know I had the bag of dirt in my pocket until I reached in for the horse. “

  He looked around the garden, Susan’s pride and joy, and toward the fence he’d built to protect the girls from the creek.

  Susan cleared her throat. “I want to tell you about Allyson … what I know, that is. As you can see, she’s pretty angry.”

  If that’s supposed to make me feel guilty, he thought, it worked.

  “The counselor says her anger is a good sign. ‘Necessary tension,’ Rachel calls it. You got a blast of it tonight, Chris, but I get it almost every day. Amy does, too. I hope Amy understands.”

  Worthy watched a pair of cardinals fly through the yard. “Still no word on where she ran to, or why?”

  Susan shook her head. “That’s down below the anger, Rachel says.” She pulled her legs up and gripped them with both hands. “What Ally said to you was cruel, but it is strange that you’re looking for another missing girl. I know it about killed us, but at least Allyson came back well-fed and in good health.”

  “I’m still hoping the same will be true about this one.”

  “You think she could be dead?” Susan asked.

  “If Ellie VanBruskman were more like Allyson, I’d give her a better chance. But she seems almost the opposite.”

  Susan looked over at Worthy. “Are you saying we did something right with Ally?”

  Worthy looked over to see tears streaming down her face.

  “I think we did a lot of things right,” Worthy replied.

  From the porch, Amy called out. “Ally called. She’s got a headache. She wants you to pick her up in a half hour.”

  Worthy rose, causing the swing to sway. “Can I ask you something?”

  Susan remained in the swing and gazed out on her garden. “If it’s what you always ask me, I don’t think I can take it tonight, Chris.”

  “No, it’s not about us. I won’t do that anymore, Susan.”

  She looked up at him, puzzled, and he couldn’t tell if she were relieved or hurt. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Do you remember something happening at Allgemein College last fall, some sort of tragedy?”

  Susan shook her head. “No, with Allyson running off, I was scouring the newspapers every day. I’m sure I’d have remembered if something …. Wait a minute. There was that horrible accident out at the Palisades. The Pakistani boy … wasn’t his father a professor at the college?”

  Pakistani? The RA had said Indian. Close enough, he thought. “Tell me what you remember.”

  “I think he was a little older than Amy. He fell while rock climbing with some friends. As I remember, he died without regaining consciousness. Did your missing girl know him?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure someone else did. When was all this?”

  Susan rose from the swing and fanned away a mosquito. Lines on her face, new to Worthy, formed tiny shadows in the evening light. “I think it was a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving.”

  That had to be it, Worthy thought. Victor knew the boy who’d died. But why had he and Ellie blamed Allgemein?

  They walked together toward the house. “Oh, I knew there was something I was supposed to tell you,” she said. “Someone called for you a couple nights ago.”

  “Here?” he asked testily.

  “You still get a lot of calls here, Chris. Mostly for better phone service or a new mortgage, but this one was from a woman.”

  “A woman? Did she leave a name?”

  “Cartwright, I think. Dr. Cartwright. I think she said she was from Mercy Center. She asked if you’d call her back. Does that make any sense?”

  Worthy stopped in the yard and nodded slowly. Ellie’s psychiatrist at the hospital. Why hadn’t he thought about that himself? But then again, why hadn’t the VanBruskmans mentioned her?

  While shaving the next morning—a rainy Sunday in Detroit—Worthy thought about Father Fortis back in New Mexico. Had he followed through and told Sera Lacey about the santo? What would she mak
e of the similarity of the old painting and the nun’s stab wounds? More than I, he admitted. A cop from the Midwest wasn’t going to solve this one.

  Once he flew back to New Mexico, Father Fortis would ask him about Allyson. What would he say? He’d have to tell him about giving her the dirt, and he’d have to admit he had no idea why he’d done that. Well, at least Allyson hadn’t exploded. Maybe it was magic dirt.

  Despite the fiasco at the VanBruskmans’ house, he considered the time in Detroit as worth it. And before he flew out, he still had the interview with Dr. Cartwright. He wondered what she might know.

  As he dried his face, he tried to find a thread of logic in what he knew. Victor had come to Detroit in the fall and had made a good start at a prestigious college. A religious kid, he’d been the helper type. He reached out to the fragile VanBruskman girl and also befriended a Pakistani boy. Despite hazing in his dorm, he managed to impress his professors—until early November. That was when the Pakistani boy had died, and that was when Victor and Ellie agreed that Allgemein was somehow at fault. After that, Victor dropped out of school.

  Worthy straightened his tie, admitting that what he knew didn’t offer one clue as to the boy’s whereabouts. But at least with Victor, he had the beginning of a sequence. That was more than he could say about Ellie. She’d been hospitalized for depression a year ago. She did well in college, thanks to Victor’s help, but lost her only college friend in November. In December, she signed up to take the spring break trip to New Mexico—Victor’s home. There she ran away, and from that point on, her trail was completely cold.

  Had she found Victor? Was she still searching for him? Or was she already dead?

  Maybe Ellie’s doctor would offer some help. He’d rechecked his files the night before and found, oddly, that Dr. Cartwright wasn’t the psychiatrist of record.

  Mercy Center’s reception area was the sunny sort, with paintings of flowers about to bloom and ducks winging over rivers. The décor reminded him of something the nosy nun at Chimayó had said as they were about to leave the church. “People who come to Chimayó have tried the bright, cheery places. They come here for the darkness,” she’d said.