Lisa Miscione - Angel Fire

“And what happened with each of them?’’

“Christine and Harold seemed to have beaten their addictions when they disappeared. Shawna became involved in the church and that seemed to give her some peace. When Maria’s tumor was removed, after her visit, it was found to be benign. She claimed that before she had seen me, she was sure she was about to die from breast cancer, and that as I played my guitar, she could feel the cancer leaving her. She was quite vocal about it.’’

“So you helped all of them. In ways, you healed all of them. That should mean something to you, Juno. Each of their lives was better for your interaction with them, whether it was divine or not.’’

“Lydia,’’ he said, “if your question implies what I think it does, then all of their lives were ended because of their interaction with me.’’

“No, Juno, all of their lives ended because of their interaction with Bernard Hugo. Don’t confuse that. Do not take that on. You acted in a way that was true to yourself and true to your belief in God.’’

“So did Bernard Hugo.’’

Lydia sat in the doorway and watched as the police began to overturn the garden, removing the flowers first and then raking through the dirt carefully, trying not to damage what might be found, if anything. A headache had started to settle behind her eyes, the events of the day bearing down like a weight on her brain. She kept trying to move the images of Juno weeping and of Bernard Hugo’s chamber of horrors from her mind so she could focus on what their next move should be. But all she could do was watch, wondering what or who they would find buried in the garden. She thought she knew.

The flowers were piled on the ground like corpses and Lydia found herself mesmerized by the rhythmic sound of the raking in the dirt. The sun was hot and the officers were sweating heavily in their efforts. There was no other sound except the wind and the occasional car driving by. Lydia stared at the statue of Madonna and Child and wondered what those stone eyes had borne witness to, as she heard a rake make contact with a hard surface beneath the dirt. As if answering some kind of macabre cue, Medical Examiner Henry Wizner appeared at the garden gate.

It seemed as if time slowed as the police officers moved out of the way and Wizner knelt by the garden, opening his black bag. He removed surgical gloves, a small paintbrush, and a spade. With the brush he carefully whisked away the dirt to reveal a small glass circle, around which he carefully dug with the spade. Lydia moved over closer to him as he reached with his gloved hand and pulled a glass mason jar from the earth. Inside, floating in a clear liquid Lydia could only assume was formaldehyde, was a human heart.

“It’s time to go, Juno,’’ Lydia said, approaching Juno from behind. He sat where she had left him an hour earlier, barely having moved.

“What did you find?’’

“Maybe we should talk about this another day.’’

“My uncle?’’

“No.’’

Juno just nodded.

“Why don’t you come back to my house?’’ she offered. “You can stay there as long as you need to.’’

“I need time alone. I need to be somewhere familiar.’’ He answered slowly, his voice as slight and far away as he seemed to be. “I need to try to understand everything that has happened here.’’

“I can’t let you stay here, Juno. You are part of his plan and he’ll be coming for you.’’

“And for you.’’

“Yes, I think so. But don’t worry about me. Where do you want to go?’’

On the way back to the Hugo house, she brought him to the home of Mrs. Turvey, the woman who had tutored him as a child. She was old but hearty; she took him in her arms and he seemed to find comfort there.

“Lydia,’’ he called to her as she walked away from him, “take care. Don’t do anything foolish.’’

His voice had an odd strength to it and she turned to face him.

“Don’t worry about me, Juno. Just take care of yourself.’’

Now Lydia walked around Bernard Hugo’s home and tried to get a sense of him. It was difficult. A few tattered items of clothing hung in the master-bedroom closet; the bed had just one dirty, rumpled top sheet; no photographs sat on the bedside table or hung on the wall. Downstairs there was only a worn recliner and a card table. There was nothing in the refrigerator, except a carry-out bag from the Blue Moon Cafe and a few cans of Budweiser.

The bag was evidence and she called it to the attention of one of the officers scanning the small, nearly empty house. Lydia wondered if Maria Lopez had handed him that bag, and how many times he’d gone to the cafe before he’d killed her. He was as alone and disconnected as his victims.

She walked back upstairs to look at the “operating room.’’ It was so eerie to see her image, her articles, her book covers on the wall of a maniac’s death chamber.

Chief Morrow was on his cellular phone giving a description of Bernard Hugo to the state police, who would then distribute it to neighboring states. “You guys are going to make sure the area airports, and train and bus stations are covered?’’ she heard him ask. “Right…right…Well, the only place I can think of might be Colorado. His wife is there. No, I don’t recall her maiden name but I can get it. I’ll get back to you.’’

Lydia walked over to the table. It looked so cold, so cruel. The table, the implements, as well as the rest of the room, were immaculately clean now. But she imagined the table covered with blood, imagined Shawna lying on it, her chest sliced opened, and she shivered. Lydia wondered if the killer wanted to see her there, too.

Jeffrey walked up behind her and she jumped a little.

“I’m sure he’s on the run,’’ he said to her, with too much conviction, as though he were trying to reassure himself as much as her. “He’s not going to get far.’’

“He’s not done yet.’’

“There’s no way he can get to you or to Juno. I’m not letting you out of my sight. And there are two detectives parked in front of the Turvey house to protect Juno. It’s over, he must see that.’’

Lydia just nodded. She knew with a cool certainty that Bernard Hugo was somewhere close by, waiting, that he wasn’t done with whatever he had set out to do. Jeffrey placed an intimate hand on her hip and she leaned into him. She felt her face flush as the warmth of his presence washed over her. It was such a new feeling, to feel personally happy, even though the sight that faced her was grim.

“How are you feeling?’’ he asked.

“Horrible and wonderful,’’she answered. “Horrible about this, wonderful about…everything else.’’

“I know,’’ he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing.

It had been a long day and the sun was going down as Lydia sat on the stoop outside the Hugo home, writing longhand in her notebook the events of the day, narrating them already. In the house behind her, she could still hear the activity of the crime scene. Jeffrey’s voice was clear and strong, full of authority. The sound of it comforted her as she wrote. A parade of people rushed back and forth, carrying evidence away, delivering coffee and files.

She looked up from her notebook when she heard a vehicle approach, and saw Wizner emerge with three police officers and walk toward the house. “I think you’ll be interested in this, Ms. Strong,’’ Wizner said without stopping or looking at her as he passed. She got up to follow them.

Jeffrey looked up from the conversation he was having with one of the forensics officers when Wizner walked in.

“Well, Mr. Mark, it looks like those organs weren’t put to such good use after all.’’