The shocked look on her face silenced him.
“Oh, please finish,” she said acidly.
Worthy felt the old chasm open between them. What did she think he meant? He was trying to say that Victor wasn’t crazy. He was saying he had nothing but pity for how the boy had died. So why couldn’t she see his point?
Sera looked straight ahead at the train tracks. “You were going to say that in the end, Victor got what he wanted. Right? God, Chris, Victor didn’t want to die! He wanted to be forgiven.”
“That’s what I meant.”
She turned completely toward him. “Oh, really? Chris, if you ever expect to understand people like Victor Martinez, you’ll have to start with one very basic fact. Victor wanted that cross so that he could live again, not die! Have you considered for one moment that if Victor had found a willing Brotherhood, none of this would’ve happened? He’d probably be helping us look for Ellie right now.”
Her face was flushed, her eyes flashing.
“What can I say? I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, adding, “It seems we can’t get through a meal without me upsetting you.”
But Sera looked as if she hadn’t heard him. She stared directly into his eyes and said nothing.
“I don’t know why I’m bothering, but I want you to hear a story.” She looked down at her hands. “When I was ten years old, I walked over to see my grandfather one day. He was in his tool shed making keys. It must have been in August because the day was like an oven. He didn’t have a shirt on. I remember seeing his huge arms, and then he reached down for a tool and turned his back to me. That was the first time I had ever seen the scars, the two perfectly parallel slits between his shoulder blades. I knew enough not to ask him about them, but my mother told me later they were his initiation marks.”
Sera’s hand rubbed the upholstery of the seat as if she were tracing the marks on her grandfather’s skin. “Do you know what an hermano mayor is, Chris?”
“The head honcho of the Brotherhood?”
She nodded. “He uses flint to cut the skin of the men willing to bear the cross on Good Friday,” she said quietly. “Not the Christo, because my grandfather had done something too bad for that. But he carried the cross for Christo.”
“What had he done?” Worthy asked.
Sera turned away, tears welling in her eyes. “He was a boxer, even a professional for a few years. But then he was just a fighter that other guys bet on. You know, illegal matches? One day—I must have been about seven or eight—he fought a big guy from another factory. No problem. My grandpa had the other guy in trouble right away. Unfortunately, the guy wouldn’t go down, even when one eye was swollen shut. They didn’t stop the fight until he lost consciousness. The next day, he died.”
Sera wiped away a tear and cleared her throat. “That’s when my grandfather started drinking really hard, so things got pretty bad for the rest of us. My dad had died a couple of years before, and the family needed my grandpa. The Brotherhood pulled him out of the bars and gave him a whip. Yes, a whip. My mother told me the hermano mayor sat with him every night for a month and sang Penitente songs to him while he whipped himself. Sometimes some of the other men would take him to their morada, and they’d all whip themselves. They said it was his penance for what had happened. My grandfather never drank after that, and he never fought again. The next Holy Friday, he carried the cross. He said it was the proudest day of his life.” She paused for a moment. “The Brotherhood saved his life, and they saved ours.”
Worthy didn’t say anything.
“You probably think the whip and those scars are barbaric. But guilt is real, Chris, as real as the mountains or the river down there. In an hour, it’s going to be so dark that we won’t be able to see those mountains. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Look in any bar around here, and you’ll know how guilt can pull a whole family into a grave.”
Worthy nodded. “And Victor was like your grandfather, is that what you’re saying?”
“Guilt had done a number on both of them. That’s all I’m saying.”
“So that’s why you fought me so hard when I said he must have killed the nun and Ellie.”
Sera wiped the tears off her cheek. “You had this picture of Victor all worked out. He’d come home from college disturbed about something,” she said. “I had no problem with that, but from that point on, you and I were like two people pulling Victor in opposite directions.”
“I already said I was wrong. I thought I had all the pieces of the puzzle, but I didn’t. ”
Sera shook her head slowly. “No, Chris, you still don’t get it. I’m not talking about right and wrong. I’m talking about different ways of looking at the world. If a boy from Detroit wanted to be crucified, I would see it exactly the way you did. But Victor Martinez was from here.”
Father Fortis had spent most of the next two days at the hospital by Father Linus’s bed. The old monk had, in fact, suffered a heart attack, but quick intervention at the scene had limited the damage. Father Linus was intermittently and groggily conscious, one minute insisting that the Brotherhood was innocent, the next dozing off. In one of those dozing moments, Father Fortis had made his escape and returned to the monastery. It was just as he was pulling into the parking lot and hoping for a quiet nap that Brother Bartholomew approached with another note.
Now what? he thought. But when he saw the name at the bottom of the note, he relaxed.
Are you free for the next two or three days? Please call. Lieutenant Sera Lacey.
He took the back way around the chapel to avoid the monastery’s sudden rush of visitors. If a Trappist monastery could be so described, then St. Mary’s was buzzing. The morning’s headlines, “Boy Found Nailed to Cross Near San Ignacio,” had brought the reporters and cameras back. Even now, he could see beyond the chapel to where Abbot Timothy was squinting into the lights of the cameras. As he quietly proceeded toward the dormitory, he heard the abbot promise that the community would be praying for Victor and his family. Abbot Timothy also pleaded with the killer or killers to come forward.
Not likely, Father Fortis thought. The killer was becoming bolder—or more desperate. The attacks had escalated in ferocity, bringing Father Fortis back to his question: what is this killer trying to accomplish?
In his room, Father Fortis closed the door and lay down on the bed before calling the policewoman’s number. He was surprised when Sera explained her request.
“You want me to go to Colorado with you? Why?” he asked.
“Victor was up there before he came back and was killed. Somebody has to remember him. And I have directions to the morada near where some of his family still lives. I thought you might like to go along, and besides, I’d like some company.”
As much as he wanted to sleep, Father Fortis had to admit that it would be good to get away from this media circus.
“What about Christopher?”
There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line. “Chris is going back to Chimayó. He’s hoping he can pick up Ellie’s trail again.”
Of course, he thought. Victor’s decayed body meant that Worthy was back where he started. No, worse than where he started. From the VanBruskmans’ point of view, nearly two weeks had been wasted on finding the wrong person. Two weeks for Ellie’s trail to grow even colder.
“When would we be leaving?” he asked.
“I can pick you up in two hours. What do you say?”
“I’d like to get permission from the abbot, but that shouldn’t be a problem. With Father Linus laid up, I can’t very well work on my research.”
“He’s going to be okay?”
“He had a heart attack, but it wasn’t too serious.”
“Thank God,” Sera said. “So, I’ll see you soon.”
Father Fortis dragged himself out of bed and headed for the abbot’s office, forgetting until he knocked where he’d last seen him.
A different voice answered from within the office. “Come in.”
Father Fortis entered and saw Father Bernard standing by the window, looking out toward the rock face.
“Sorry, I was looking for Abbot Timothy.”
“And you caught me hiding from the media,” Father Bernard replied with a sheepish smile.
Or trying out your new office, Father Fortis thought.
“Is there anything I can tell Abbot Timothy?” Father Bernard asked.
Father Fortis weighed the question. On an impulse, he explained his plans and the purpose of the trip.
Father Bernard caught Father Fortis’s eye and held it. Father Fortis noticed something new in the gaze, an eagerness and intensity.
“I’d like to come along,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m asking to come along.”
Father Fortis pondered not just the request but also his discomfort with it. Was it just that he was looking forward to some time away from St. Mary’s and in the company of an attractive woman?
“May I ask why?” Father Fortis asked.
Father Bernard folded his arms across his chest. “I can think of three reasons. One, the two of us haven’t had a chance to talk about Sister Anna’s journal. Two, from what the reporters are saying, the boy’s murder is linked to Sister Anna’s.” He looked down at the floor. “I feel a kind of responsibility to her to see what develops. And three, I used to have a parish up in southern Colorado, just across the border. The roads can be pretty confusing, so maybe I can be of some help.”
Father Fortis hesitated, but in the end could think of no good reason to decline the offer. “We’d have to ask the abbot.”
Father Bernard turned back to the window. “Of course.”
Thirty minutes later, Father Fortis had his answer. The abbot did indeed agree. But more surprising was Father Linus’s response when Father Fortis called him at the hospital. Claiming to feel much stronger, the old monk demanded to accompany them, especially if they were going to visit old moradas.
“Linus, we both know that’s impossible, but I do need to ask you something. And please speak candidly. Father Bernard wants to come along. Apparently, he used to be a priest up there.”
“And?”
Was it possible Father Linus didn’t know of Bernard’s comments about the Penitentes? “I’m asking if you think it’s a good idea.”
“Nicholas, if you won’t let me tag along, then Father Bernard is the perfect person to go.”
Father Fortis packed a small bag of toiletries and underwear, pondering the old monk’s response. Father Bernard, St. Mary’s spiritual director, was proving harder to understand every day.
As promised, Sera, driving a police van, picked up the two monks by early afternoon. She seemed surprised by the addition of a second person, but then Father Bernard seemed equally surprised to see that the police officer was a woman. When Sera revealed that her normal assignment wasn’t homicide, but child protection, Father Bernard grew even quieter. He listened from the front passenger seat as the two others chatted easily.
For Father Bernard’s benefit, Father Fortis asked Sera to explain the purpose of the trip.
“It’s really Choi’s idea, although I suppose I got him thinking about it. He’s convinced the killer is south of here, and he’s probably right. But we still need to know more about Victor’s time up north.”
“Sera, why would someone up in Colorado encourage Victor to head back down this way?” Father Fortis posed.
“I’m guessing some old Penitente brother took pity on him. Victor was obviously in pain, but no morada would let a stranger just barge in and play the role of Christo.” Sera paused to catch a windswept lock of hair and thread it behind her ear. “So I’m thinking one of the old guys told Victor about a few of the more traditional moradas down by Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Anyway, my hope is that we can track down at least one person who remembers Victor. If I’m going to dream big, I hope we find the person Victor was traveling with.”
Father Bernard turned abruptly in his seat. “You can’t mean the girl. I read that the boy was dead long before she got here.”
From the van’s second seat, Father Fortis studied the monk’s face, his piercing eyes and set mouth. Father Bernard ignored a line of perspiration running down from his mop of hair toward his eyebrow. This is a different face than I’ve seen before, Father Fortis thought. Father Bernard seemed on edge, no longer the calm spiritual advisor he’d talked to days before.
The challenge in Father Bernard’s voice brought an air of tension into the van. Father Fortis knew from his own experience the trouble some monks had relating to women. But Father Bernard had been Sister Anna’s confessor and had clearly liked her. And by his own admission, he’d served as a parish priest in Colorado. So why the new tone?
“Father, I’m not talking about Ellie VanBruskman,” Sera patiently explained. “According to his uncle, Victor didn’t drive. He must have hitchhiked north to visit his family’s graves and their morada. At least, that’s my theory about why he made the trip. And that’s why I brought along Victor’s mother’s directions to the cemetery. If we’re lucky, we’ll find someone who met him. From that person, maybe a Penitente brother, we might get a description of the guy or the type of vehicle that gave him a lift south. If we can track that person down, we’ll find out where he dropped Victor. We’ll just keep going, doing our best to follow his trail south.”
“But if he was hitchhiking along a road like this,” Father Bernard countered, “wouldn’t his rides have come from people just passing through?”
Sera shot Father Fortis a quick glance in the rearview mirror. It had been a mistake to let him come along, he realized. So why had he agreed? Simply because he thought it selfish to imagine that Sera wanted only his company? No, it had been more than that. It was Father Linus’s assurance that Father Bernard would be the perfect one to go in his place. This is perfect?
Sera’s eyes remained on the road ahead. “I’m not disagreeing. Of course it’s probably a stranger who gave him a lift south,” she said, slowly, as if explaining to a child, “but even if we uncover only one or two of Victor’s contacts, we’ll learn something about his state of mind. Don’t forget, whoever we find is going to be one of the last persons Victor talked to before he died.”
Father Bernard sat silently for a moment, looking out his window at the grasslands and sage bushes. But Father Fortis sensed that the man wasn’t through.
“So, in the end, you agree with your superior,” Father Bernard said. “The killer is in the opposite direction from where we’re headed.” His words were clipped, the West Texas drawl nearly buried in some inexplicable frustration.
“Look, Father,” Sera replied curtly, “You somehow got the wrong idea about this trip. We’re up here to fill in background. That’s all.”
Father Bernard ran a hand through his wiry hair. “The vandalizing of the morada, didn’t that happen in Colorado?”
“Yes, but even if those incidents are connected to the murders, we’re talking about something that happened four or five months ago. Let’s say the killer or killers were responsible, although no one is sure of that. Where’d they go next? Down to St. Mary’s where they killed Sister Anna. And Victor’s body was found south of there.”
Father Fortis could see Sera’s neck turning red. He leaned forward and addressed his fellow monk. “Father Bernard, we’ve both met Lieutenant Choi, and I think we’d agree that he’s clearly competent. If he’s concentrating on the moradas farther south, I trust his judgment.” And why don’t you? he wanted to add.
“Fine, fine,” Father Bernard replied. And with that, he pulled out his breviary and began his afternoon prayers. Ten minutes later, he leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes, and soon was snoring softly.
Why had he been so eager to come along? In the abbot’s office, he’d promised to help. He claimed he wanted to talk about Sister Anna’s journal. But now it seemed he’d tagged along for some other reason. Was it to pla
y detective? Father Fortis of all people could understand the desire, but why was Father Bernard being so hard on Sera?
From his back window, Father Fortis looked down into a canyon lying hundreds of feet below the road. It would have been better to have Father Linus, even with his dogged defense of the Penitentes.
Sera caught his eye again in the rearview mirror. “I couldn’t help noticing that our jolly friend was saying his prayers. Do you need to say yours, Father, or can we talk?”
He leaned forward on the back of her seat. “Please call me Nick. No, as I tell them at St. Mary’s, we Orthodox say our prayers on Eastern time. Listen, my dear, I’m truly sorry. If I knew Father Bernard better, I’d apologize for him. But this isn’t the man I spoke with back at St. Mary’s.”
“It’s okay. I think I know what’s going on. He’s not the first man to doubt my abilities. Tell me, Nick, how convincing was I with your friend?”
“About what?”
“That I know what’s up ahead in Colorado,” she said, catching his eye again.
Father Bernard snorted and shifted in the passenger seat.
“Are you sure he’s asleep?” she whispered.
Father Fortis leaned over the seat and studied the monk’s face. “He’s drooling a bit.”
Sera laughed lightly. “The truth is, this is the first time I’ve worked a homicide. My usual job is to track down living people, children in trouble. Our sleeping friend’s grilling really rattled me.”
Father Fortis laid a hand on her shoulder. “Well, it didn’t show, my dear.”
“Thanks, but what he said is pretty close to what I’ve been asking myself all morning.”
“What’s your fear? Do you think we’re headed into some danger?”
“Not really, but then I don’t exactly have the training to know. Logically, everything points to the action being down south, just as I told him. And my head knows that if there was any chance Victor’s killer is up in Colorado, Choi wouldn’t have sent me. He certainly wouldn’t have let me take two civilians along.”
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