Lisa Miscione - Angel Fire

“You ordered in,’’ he said, smiling as he walked down the spiral staircase.

“Whatever.’’

“Do you have anything in this house besides coffee and cigarettes?’’

“Eggs and wheat bread. Maybe some milk.’’

“Great,’’ he muttered, walking into the kitchen.

Lydia pulled on her sneakers to walk to the mailbox for the paper. Outside, the morning was crisp, the sky blue and close. That was one of the things she loved most about New Mexico. Almost thirteen thousand feet above sea level, you dwelled in the sky. It was all around you, not just above. She took the clean air into her lungs, thinking she needed to run later. She would avoid the church.

She was halfway back up the driveway with the paper in her hand before she glanced at the headline.

BLOODBATH IN THE BARRIO: Woman Missing; Presumed Dead

Lydia ran the rest of the way up the drive and burst in through the front door. Jeffrey was standing at the stove, scrambling eggs.

“Look at this,’’ she said, throwing down the paper.

He turned off the stovetop, took his glasses from his shirt pocket and scanned the article. The fact that this event had taken place in the late-night hours and was in the first edition of the morning newspaper, coupled with the fact that the police had “no comment,’’ indicated this story had been leaked to the press. Someone at the crime scene had a contact at the paper and had called the story in – always a bad thing when hunting a serial killer, not that he was convinced that they were in fact looking for a serial killer. In spite of the glaring headline, the article contained few details. A late-night anonymous call to the police had led them to the apartment building. The door had stood open, so they could easily see the blood and signs of struggle, and had probable cause to enter. The missing woman was a waitress at a local restaurant near Angel Fire. She had a short rap sheet for solicitation. Her name and picture had not been released because relatives had not yet been located.

“Do you think this ties in with the others?’’ he asked, trying not to sound skeptical.

“It could,’’ she answered.

“What makes you say that?’’

“Because now there are four missing persons. In a town this size, that’s an anomaly. There was obviously a mortal struggle. And the body was removed from the scene.’’

“But there was no sign of a struggle or foul play with any of the other missing people.’’

“That only means that this situation got out of control. If this woman had been killed and her body found in the apartment, then I would not be inclined to think that it was connected. But someone took her body. For what? If someone was trying to hide the crime, he would have cleaned up the scene…or at least closed the door. The most important thing to him was to take her with him. It’s a signature behavior. He has another agenda. He probably just did a cleaner job of it with the others.’’

Lydia and Jeffrey sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper between them. She had leaned across the table, looking at him intently. He had to admit, she did have some good points.

“All right, I think I’m going to talk to Morrow. Maybe he has some missing pieces that will help us determine if there is something here.’’

“Alone?’’

“I just think it might be best.’’

“Bullshit, Jeffrey. I didn’t ask you to come down here to play the Great White Hope. I need to be a part of this.’’

“You are. I just think Morrow will cooperate more readily without you there at this stage.’’

“Why?’’

“Because you have a bad history with him. And… you have a way of putting people on the defensive.’’

“The only people who are defensive with me are people who have something to hide.’’

“Come on, Lydia. Charm isn’t going to work on me,’’ he said, a sarcastic smile on his face. He reached out for her hand, which she pulled away. She wanted to kick him in the shin. But she knew he was right.

She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. “Fine. But you have to swear to tell me everything. Every last detail.’’

“I promise. Did you pitch this story to someone already?’’

“No.’’

“Then why are you so worked up? I’ve never seen you like this.’’

“I just need to know what happened to these people.’’ She turned her gaze away from him and looked out the window.

He kept his hand outstretched on the table for hers.

“I won’t do another thing without you. Just let me go there alone first, Okay?’’

“All right,’’ she said, and gave him her hand, grudgingly.

He squeezed it and then stood up from the table and started clearing the dishes he had set out for the breakfast they were not going to eat now.

“Leave them. I’ll take care of it. You just go talk to Morrow,’’ she said.

He placed the dishes in the sink and walked from the kitchen. “Don’t be angry,’’ he said over his shoulder, without waiting to hear her response.

She took a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. It missed its mark by a few feet and lay soft and harmless on the Italian-tile kitchen floor.

She sighed. The thought of sitting and waiting for him to come back was unbearable for her, the hours stretching before her were heavy with boredom and anticipation. She needed to do something.

She walked into her bedroom, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, put on a pair of running shorts and an old T-shirt, and slid three quarters into her jog bra. She put on her Nikes at the door and was gone, running down the driveway toward the road.

From the window on the second floor, Jeffrey watched her go. He hated it when she left without saying good-bye. She seemed so ephemeral at the best of times. Watching her run away, he wanted to throw the window open and call her back. But he couldn’t

– not now, not ever. He just had to hope she’d come on her own. He watched her until he lost sight of her.

She counted her breathing in time with her footfalls on the dirt road. Running was painful because she had bad knees and she was smoking more now than she had in months, but still it set her free. Her form was perfect, shoulders straight but relaxed, abs tight, heels landing firmly on the ground with each stride. Here, it was enough to think of nothing. She could focus on nothing but driving herself to go one more foot, one more mile, before she could go no farther. Soon her worries would seem imaginary and far away. Soon she would be submerged in her effort and in enduring the pain of her joints and in her lungs. She took a masochistic pleasure in it. But today she didn’t seem to be able to run far enough or fast enough to silence the thoughts inside her head, or to quiet the emotions that simmered inside her chest.

She was angry at Jeffrey for wanting to see Morrow alone. On an intellectual level, she recognized that he was right. Jeffrey had a bad history with Morrow, too; but Jeffrey hadn’t created a national scandal by writing an article in Vanity Fair that had exposed Morrow as the alcoholic, chauvinistic incompetent that he was. Jeffrey going alone was probably the best bet they had to get Morrow to let them in. He probably wouldn’t even see Lydia if she were to show up there. But she had called Jeffrey for his help and for his support, not so that he could take over. Sometimes she felt like he was Superman and she was just Lois Lane. He was leaping tall buildings and deflecting bullets and she was just hanging on for the ride, then writing up the story when it was done. She knew it was irrational but it still made her angry. Plus his closeness was so unsettling now. They hadn’t slept under the same roof since he was recovering from being shot. And it felt so good, so safe to have him in her space. The restlessness she dreaded had subsided. She had what she needed, the real thing. She didn’t need to go looking for cheap imitations at the Eldorado.