by Lisa Unger
There was of course a slew of articles on the congresswoman’s son and his battle with leukemia, the missing dog, and the family’s graceful forbearance in the face of tragedy. The usual human-interest stuff. But Lydia could find nothing more on the Internet to expound on the Santa Fe New Mexican article that reported the dog’s body having been found mutilated at the Church of the Holy Name. So what do we have here, Sherlock? she asked herself in the sometimes mocking, sometime scolding tone that was her inner voice. It was partially her, partially her mother … Whoever it was, she could be a real bitch.
Not much, except the buzz. What she had was three of what the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit termed “high-risk victims,” people like prostitutes, drug addicts, or runaways whose lives or actions make them an easy mark for predators. She had arson and animal mutilation, two elements of the textbook “triad” of warning signs for a serial offender. Missing hospital supplies and a dog that had had his organs removed with “surgical precision” according to the local paper. And then there was the Church of the Holy Name and the blind man, whom she’d seen and dreamt about. The only thing connecting the church to the rest was that the dog had been found there. But still …
She typed the church name into the search engine, expecting a few listings for bingo games and charity events in the New Mexican. Instead she found 243 matches from newspapers and national magazines across the country.
Juno Alonzo, the blind man she’d seen playing his guitar the night before, was a bit of a celebrity. In fact, there were those who believed he was a healer and a psychic. Juno had lived at the church since he was a child. His uncle, Father Luis Claro, had raised Juno since his mother had died.
Most of his life had passed without incident until just two years earlier, when a woman who had been blinded in a car accident claimed he had returned her sight. An autistic boy was allegedly cured by Juno’s touch. A man claimed that Juno had contacted his dead wife and solved the mystery of her death. Of course, upon these stories hitting the mainstream media, the sick, dying, and curious of the world had descended upon Angel Fire like locusts, accompanied by the obligatory media circus. Juno Alonzo had refused interviews, claiming he had nothing to do with any of the healings. He made only one statement to the media: “If the people who have come to see me have been cured of what ails them, then it is God’s will and has nothing to do with me.” And when a young boy Juno visited in the hospital died after a failed organ transplant, the melee died down. People went away and Juno was forgotten again.
As Lydia read on, she vaguely remembered hearing about the story. It was before she had bought her home in Santa Fe. She chalked it up as a sensational type of story common to the supermarket tabloids. People were always looking for miracles in the dark unknown of the world, forever looking for the face of the Virgin Mary on the side of buildings, looking for Elvis in Las Vegas, looking for order in the chaos of life. This type of searching tended not to interest Lydia. There was enough in the real world that needed figuring out. I guess it never occurred to anyone that if Juno was a healer, he probably could have cured his own blindness, she thought sarcastically. But maybe that was God’s will too.
At the end of the list of articles about Juno were two items from 1965. She couldn’t believe the local paper was so on the ball as to have digitized their archives back that far, but maybe they had a lot of time on their hands. The first item was about a Serena Alonzo, who had murdered her husband by setting their house on fire while he was passed out drunk. She claimed to have killed her husband because he beat her and she feared for the life of her unborn child. The item had come up in the search because her brother, Father Luis Claro, was a young priest at the Church of the Holy Name. Serena was tried, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison. Which turned out to be a pretty short sentence, according to the next item, because Serena had died while giving birth to her son in a prison hospital. The boy, Juno Alonzo, was born blind. Father Luis took custody of him and planned to raise him at the Church of the Holy Name where he resided.
It was an interesting backstory, but Lydia wondered if anyone at the police department had information on current events they wanted to discuss. Though she doubted anyone would be rushing to the phone to take her call, Lydia knew most people she called were rarely happy to hear from her, especially the police. Chief Simon Morrow of the Santa Fe Police Department was certainly no exception. When she made a call, she had questions; for whatever reason, they usually seemed to be questions people weren’t eager to answer. She had been hung up on, sworn at, had her life threatened. She didn’t take it personally. And she was very persistent. Lydia had asked some hard questions of Chief Morrow in the past, questions that would lead to her Pulitzer. He had given answers that ultimately had led to his resignation from the St. Louis Police Department. She had thought his career was over then, deservedly so. But he had turned up in Santa Fe like a bad penny, as Lydia’s mother used to say.
Lydia was on hold, and she could almost see Simon Morrow rubbing his sweating middle-aged balding head unconsciously as he sat in front of his phone, trying to decide whether or not to take her call.
“Ms. Strong, how can I help you?”
“Chief Morrow, it’s good to hear your voice,” she said with mock cordiality. “Really.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Long enough to pick up on a few things.”
“Such as?”
“I was wondering about Lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yeah, the dog that was found mutilated at the Church of the Holy Name. You might remember, Lucky was missing a few vital organs when he turned up.”
“Sad story. What about it?”
“Is there an ongoing investigation?”
Morrow paused for what she assumed was his attempt at dramatic effect. “Ms. Strong, you are aware that the mutilation and death of a dog, while tragic, does not warrant a murder investigation.”
On the other end of the line, Lydia was practically salivating. She was tapping her pen rapidly against the pad on her desk. She could smell it. She could taste the blood in her mouth. “I am quite aware of that. I just thought, in connection with some of the other peculiar criminal activity in the area—for example, the surgical-supply warehouse or the missing-persons cases you have open—there might be some connections to be explored.”
“I see. Thank you for your input, Ms. Strong, but I fail to see how this concerns you.” He was, she knew, attempting to sound cold, intimidating, but there was an almost imperceptible quaver to his voice that told her he was hiding something.
“Just consider me an involved citizen.”
“With an overactive imagination.”
“That’s what you said the last time we spoke, Chief. Do I have to remind you how wrong you were?”
“There’s nothing here, Ms. Strong. Nothing at all.”
“Are there photos of the location where the dog was found?” she pressed.
“No.”
“Okay, we can play it this way if you want to,” she said, her voice level and soft, “but we’ll be talking again soon. Sooner than you’d like, I bet.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Really.”
As Simon Morrow slammed down the phone he issued a string of expletives. Continuing to curse, he rose quickly, knocking over a cold, black cup of coffee.
He barely saved the photos of Lucky’s mutilated body that lay spread across his desk.
chapter six
Her run the night before had soothed Lydia’s restlessness, but only temporarily. But morning had turned to afternoon and the afternoon to early evening as Lydia had sat at her computer, and her focus was beginning to drift.
She began to think she would call Jeffrey and ask what he thought about the articles and their possible implications. But then she began to think of other things. Memories of her mother began to sear her, and her restlessness began to feel physically uncomfortable. She shut down the computer and got up to stretch. The
house was silent and lonely. She had to get out.
She walked to her bedroom and entered the walk-in closet, started flipping through the rows of designer clothes that she collected with zeal.
When she let the impulse take her, it took her to extremes. Sometimes it would come on her hours or days before she acted upon it. Her conscious mind would push it away until it could no longer be ignored. Even now, as she pulled the sleeveless black Armani dress over her lean, tightly muscled body and slipped her slender feet into high-heeled Gucci black leather pumps, she barely acknowledged what she was about to do. She wrapped her lustrous blue-black hair into a loose French twist and held it in place with two red lacquer chopsticks. She applied no makeup to her pale skin except a deep-red shade of MAC lipstick, to accentuate her stormy gray eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t take responsibility for herself and her actions. It was only that she had about as much control as a junkie looking for a fix. All she was aware of as she headed out the door was a sense of relief that she wouldn’t be spending the night alone.
In big cities like New York, the game was more dangerous, the quarry more unpredictable, more plentiful. In Santa Fe, she would usually find herself in the hotel bar of the Eldorado, maybe in a restaurant off the square, possibly a dive bar by the side of the highway. It didn’t matter.
“May I help you, miss?” She was greeted by the smiling maître d’, a young man who looked too young to be wearing a tuxedo.
“Just a drink. I’ll sit at the bar.”
The bar was more crowded than usual. Though the permanent residents of Santa Fe had opposed the construction of the Eldorado, the luxury hotel was packed with tourists year-round. Opera season, ski season, Indian Market, the art galleries on Canyon Road drew the country’s idle rich. It had proved to be good hunting grounds the last time she had visited.
She spotted him at the end of the slick black bar. He was young, mid-twenties; his thick, dark hair was pulled into a ponytail at the base of his skull. He exuded wealth, his black cashmere sweater draping elegantly off taut pecs and strong shoulders. His Rolex glittered in the dim track-lighting above him. A martini, half-finished, sat before him. He traced the edge of the glass with a gentle fingertip. Melancholy, contemplative, definitely alone. She sat down across from him, a good distance, but directly in his line of vision.
“Ketel One, straight,” she told the bartender, an elegantly dressed black man with a shaved head and a diamond stud in his right ear.
Her eyes swept the room. A couple nuzzled in a cozy booth with the intimacy of people who could see only each other. A group of well-dressed, bejeweled older women, obviously on vacation from their husbands, had had too much to drink and were laughing loudly. A young woman, trying to look more sophisticated than she was in a sequined dress and cheap satin shoes, sipped a white zinfandel and watched the door expectantly. A tall, muscular man walked in the door and stood awkwardly as the maître d’ outfitted him with a jacket that was too small. Before he put it on, she noticed a tattoo on his arm. In the darkness of the room she could barely make it out, but it looked like a crucifix. The maître d’ then escorted him to a small table in the back of the bar; Lydia imagined it was to keep him out of sight of the better-dressed clients.
When the man across the bar raised his eyes, he caught hers. She did not look away. Like always, she compared him to Jeffrey. Like always, there was no comparison. But he would do. He was quite handsome. She liked them dark and brooding. He smiled a practiced smile. She smiled back with equal skill and lowered her eyes, shyly. How she loved the game. She raised the glass to her lips, feeling the cool vodka burn her tongue and slide down her throat. She did not look at him again. If they did not come to her, she would walk away. But they usually came. And when she raised her eyes to glance at him again, he was on his way over to her. Chopin played mournfully in the background, as ice cubes in crystal glasses and the murmur of conversations were a music of their own.
She wondered what line he would use: “In town on business or pleasure?” “What kind of man would keep a woman like you waiting?” She’d heard them all. When he seated himself beside her, he surprised her.
“I could drown in those eyes of yours,” he said without looking at her. A slight Italian accent tinged his words. Of course. Only European men were so smooth. American men were clumsy, arrogant.
“Thank you,” she answered.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Within the hour they were in his suite, decorated in predictable Southwest decor; it straddled the line between opulence and hotel tackiness uncomfortably. With three straight vodkas under her belt, Lydia felt the welcome lightness that accompanied these moments. He had turned the lights down low and they danced slowly to a Mexican ballad on a stereo system piped into the room. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating. His large hands on the small of her back made her feel safe and wanted, though she didn’t know him at all. When she closed her eyes, he was the right build so that she could imagine he was Jeffrey.
She hated herself a little in these moments, like a junkie going back to the needle. This pursuit was empty, she knew. The effort to satisfy the desire never met the gaping need within her. Here, she could have closeness without the risk of love, she could take without giving, she could have something she wasn’t afraid to lose. She’d always had an intellectual perspective on her flaws and it never made any difference when she tried to change.
He looked into her eyes as one hand traced the smooth skin on her arm and the other delicately took down the zipper on the back of her dress. “It is all right?” he asked softly.
“Yes.”
She helped him slip off his sweater. He was beautiful. Apollo, she called him in her mind. Paolo was his name, she remembered vaguely. He kissed the straps of her dress away and the garment fell to the floor. As he gently cupped her breasts in his hands, kissing them, she undid his pants and reached inside, feeling him hard for her. He groaned at her touch and kissed her mouth with such passion it startled her. He pulled her leg up and she wrapped it around his, moving herself against him. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed. She leaned on her elbows and watched him step out of pants and black silk boxers. “Very nice,” she said, smiling.
He pulled off her white lace panties with a boyish smile. “You are also ‘very nice,’ as you say. Beautiful, perfect.”
She laughed, thinking the less he spoke, the better. He lay beside her and traced the center line of her body with a delicate touch. She quivered, ticklish, aroused. And then she was on top of him. She kissed him as she moved her hips in slow, luscious circles. He held her tightly at her hips, pulling himself deeper and deeper into her. She watched his face as he surrendered to his pleasure, moaning. She loved that moment of true yearning; she knew it so well in her own heart. To see it in another made her feel less alone.
It was close to midnight as she pulled her clothes back on. He slept soundly, snoring lightly, sweetly, like a child. She glanced back at him. He was lovely. As she closed the door and walked down the hall, she wrapped her arms around herself as if to protect her heart against the ache that was already setting in. The feeling she would go to the ends of the earth to avoid, the hole in her insides where the wind blew through, was creeping up on her, pulling at her with black ghost-fingers.
In her car in the parking lot, she wept, deep, true tears that welled from some secret place inside her. Tears she couldn’t understand, and couldn’t escape.
When Jeffrey’s phone rang at four A.M., he knew it was her before he picked up.
“Where are you?” he answered.
“Santa Fe.”
“Do you know I’ve been trying to reach you?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. She heard him struggling not to sound the combination of relieved and angry that he was. “Well, what are you doing?”
“I came to hide out for a while but I’ve run into something down here. Will you come?”
&
nbsp; “You want me to drop everything and come to New Mexico?”
“Are you working on something big? Something no one else can handle?”
“Not really.”
“We both know you don’t have a life,” she teased.
He laughed. He could use a vacation. And he did want to see her. “I’ll call you with my flight information tomorrow. You can pick me up at the airport.”
chapter seven
Jeffrey fought the urge to turn around and bolt from the gangway that led to United Airlines flight number 133 to Albuquerque. It was the same irrational feeling of impending doom that always assailed him when he boarded a plane. He tried without success to control his adrenalinized fear response, the dry mouth and sweating palms, the shallow breathing. Lydia thought it was the funniest thing in the world that someone who had faced down some of the most dangerous, desperate men in the country without a notable rise in his heart rate, experienced abject terror at getting on a plane. “It’s safer than getting into a car,” she’d said. And he knew this intellectually. But you had control over a car. If the engine failed on your car, you didn’t plummet thirty-five thousand feet into the ocean. But he kept moving up the narrow aisle, stowed his carry-on in the overhead bin, and squeezed his big frame into the tiny window seat. He liked the window seat because he wanted to be able to see if there was a problem, like black smoke coming from the engine, or maybe an errant bolt of lightning in a cloudless sky. Then, of course, there was the possibility of in-air collisions because of the increasing number of planes in the sky, and pilots who spoke different native languages from the air traffic controllers. To say nothing of the potential for drug addiction and alcoholism among the pilots, airplane mechanics, and air traffic controllers. Really, anything could go wrong at any moment. “You know too much about this shit,” Lydia had commented. “Ignorance is bliss. Besides, you walked away from a bullet fired into you at point-blank range. You’re charmed.”
