Lisa Miscione - Angel Fire

Lydia thought she was going to have a brain aneurysm waiting for him to come back to her with the information. She heard the wail of approaching sirens.

“Okay,’’ he said, after less than a minute, though it seemed to Lydia like an hour. “We’ve got a 1995 Dodge Caravan registered to Bernard Hugo at 1412 Mission Lane in Angel Fire, New Mexico.’’

The corners of her mouth turned up in a sad, tight smile of recognition. She had to assume that Bernard Hugo was Robbie’s father and that he hadn’t gone to Colorado after all. “Craig, you are the best. I am taking you on a drinking binge as soon as I get back to New York.’’

“Cool. When are you in town?’’

Paramedics came in through the garage door, and Jeffrey moved away from Greg as they approached.

“Soon, honey. I have to run, Craig. You’re the best.’’

“’Bye, Lydia.’’

“You’ll break his heart,’’ said Jeffrey.

“Let’s go,’’ she answered.

“Shouldn’t we call Morrow?’’

“No. Fuck that guy.’’

“We should call,’’ Jeffrey said as they got in the car, Lydia in the driver’s seat. He dialed the number.

“The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not available,’’ said the recorded message.

There was time to turn around and do this the right way. All he had to do was to pick up his cell phone and make a call. Chief Morrow sat in his prowler and looked at the front door of the house. He could tell it was empty. Empty houses gave off an aura of abandonment and most cops could see it. At least they hoped they could.

He should have called Jeffrey Mark by now. He should have at least brought backup. But it was just a hunch. He was just checking up on a hunch. If it was nothing, then it was nothing. If it was something, well then, either he would be dead or he would be the hero cop who saved the day. He was banking on the latter.

Lying in bed this morning, he had finally remembered Bernard Hugo. He remembered Hugo’s grief. After Robbie Hugo had died, the church and the community had rallied around them in a way Morrow remembered as remarkable. And at the gathering at the Hugo home after Robbie’s funeral, which Morrow had attended in his official capacity, the house had been filled with people. Robbie’s mother Jennifer had been strong, hosting her guests with grace and smiling bravely. Bernard Hugo had sat in a corner staring blankly out the window, his face ashen and tight, eyes glazed. Morrow remembered his face as the very embodiment of grief.

There had been whispers, he remembered now as it all came back, about Bernard’s mental illness and whether he could bear up under the strain of grief. Simon Morrow guessed that he hadn’t been able to. He wondered what he would find inside. He hefted himself out of the car and walked to the front door. He noted that the lawn was overgrown and the house needed a coat of paint. When he knocked, the door pushed open. Morrow stepped inside. From the door he could see the living room and the kitchen. A hallway leading to the bedrooms was to his left.

“Bernard Hugo,’’ he called. “Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’’

The house answered with silence and he heard his voice echo lightly in the nearly empty room. Most of the furniture he remembered was gone. There was just a television, a recliner, a rickety old card table. He took another step inside and pulled out his gun.

The odor assailed him. Garbage, beer, general filth, and something else. Some other odor lingered, mingling with the others. He pulled a surgical glove from his pocket and deftly slid it on his left hand while still holding his weapon with his right. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. The door had pushed open, so he felt it was within his rights to enter. He wouldn’t touch anything. Just look around. If he found anything, he’d call it in right away. At least he would be the first on the scene.

Keeping his back to the wall, he walked down the hallway and looked in the master bedroom, where a bed was the only piece of furniture. The bed was bare except for a crumpled-up beige-and-green top sheet. There was little else to see except a closet that stood open where a few items of clothing were sloppily hung on wire hangers and old shoes cluttered the rack that hung on the door.

The door across the hall was closed and Morrow tried to push it open with his foot, keeping his back to the opposite wall, but he couldn’t. So he moved to the right of the doorjamb, turned the knob, and pushed the door open fast. It banged against the wall inside the room. He entered gun-first. And when he stood in the doorway, he saw what he had come for. And he wasn’t sure whether to whoop with joy or be ill.

As he slid his cell phone from the inside lapel pocket of his suit jacket, he heard cars pull up the gravel driveway. From the window he could see Jeffrey Mark and Lydia Strong walk up to the door. He walked down the hallway to greet them.

“Chief, what are you doing here?’’ Jeffrey asked.

“I was following up on a hunch that proved to be right,’’ he answered, trying not to seem smug. “What are you doing here?’’

“We got a tip on a vehicle and it led us here. Why didn’t you call for backup?’’

“I wasn’t sure there was anything,’’ he answered. “I came here to ask some questions of this guy Bernard Hugo. I just remembered he was working as a caretaker at the church on and off for the last few months.’’

“Is he here?’’

“No.’’

“But you came in here without a warrant? Jesus.’’

“Relax. I didn’t touch anything.’’

“That’s not the fucking point,’’ shot Jeffrey. “If anybody finds out you were here, you’ll lose anything you’ve found in court and this guy will walk. You wanted to handle this without the FBI, and then you pull a stunt like this that could put your whole case in the toilet. What were you thinking?’’

“I was thinking about stopping a guy who has probably killed three, maybe four people, Mr. Mark. Watch your tone. I’m not a rookie. The door was open and there was a notable stench. I had probable cause to enter.’’

Jeffrey stared at Chief Morrow as the four police officers around him shifted uncomfortably and looked away. He reined in his anger at Morrow’s carelessness. And when he spoke again, his voice was more restrained. “Fine. It’s your case, Chief. Let’s see what you got.’’

Simon Morrow was moved to silence by rage as he walked them to evidence he had found.

“Holy shit,’’ said Jeffrey, as he entered the room.

If insanity had a bedroom, this would have been it. The metal gurney where Bernard Hugo had removed the hearts of his victims was scrubbed clean and stood in the middle of a room that looked to have been a baby’s nursery. Beside it was a tray of surgical implements – scalpel, bone saw, and other horrible metal tools Jeffrey couldn’t name but hoped would never be put to use on his body. Powder-blue curtains hung on the window frame, and a wallpaper border with ducks and balloons could still be seen edging the ceiling. The rest of the wall was covered, however, with newspaper articles and photographs. The maniac collage that papered the walls included images of Lydia from the media, articles written about her and by her, covers from her books, articles about Juno, about the death of Robbie Hugo, baby pictures, some of the very articles that Lydia had clipped from the newspaper at the beginning of her interest in this case. Over it all, the rantings of a demented mind were scrawled in blood. Jeffrey saw immediately the message they had found on Lydia’s bedroom mirror among the rest of the deadly graffiti, including: Sinners must die…I am God’s warrior and evildoers shall feel my wrath…She will bring the message of God.