It was nearly ten o’clock when Lydia’s Kompressor pulled into the dirt parking lot of Smokey’s Sports Bar. The dilapidated building was a caricature of itself, of a dive bar by the side of the deserted road. The gray wood building sagged and was covered with graffiti. A wide variety of pickup trucks, with shotguns mounted on the back windows, sat waiting for their drunk drivers to try to get them home in one piece. God, how grim, Lydia thought as she eyed the flickering neon sign. Most of the letters had gone dark and not been repaired, so the sign just read, “m…e…s…S.’’ “Mess is right,’’ muttered Lydia as she sat mustering the strength to enter. She was stepping out of the car when her cell phone chirped.
“What’s up?’’ she answered, sinking back into the leather interior.
“I was just wondering where you were.’’
She smiled to hear Jeffrey’s voice, hoping that he wasn’t angry with her anymore. She knew she could be a bitch and she was eternally grateful that he always forgave her.
“I’m at Smokey’s Sports Bar. I thought I’d have a few drinks and see if I couldn’t get any action.’’
“Sounds like it’s right up your alley. You still mad at me?’’
“No. Are you still mad at me?’’
“You know I can never stay angry at you. Besides, you were right.’’
There was a moment of silence before he said, “Her heart is missing, Lyd. Removed with surgical precision.’’
“Like Lucky.’’
“Yeah, except everything else is still intact…more or less.’’
“Did you come up with anything out there?’’ he asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I think so. I talked to Greg. Turns out Shawna was involved with the Church of the Holy Name. He also said that she had seen a green minivan a couple of times in the days before she disappeared.’’ She could hear him flipping through the pages of a file.
“He never said anything about that before.’’
“No, he said it was just something she mentioned when they were kidding around. It’s probably nothing but if we came up with a green minivan entering the park, we might have a lead. Any luck with the security guard?’’
“The good news is there’s a log, the bad news is that security guards seem to have really bad handwriting, and that a hundred and twenty-three vehicles have entered that park in the last twenty-four hours. We sent detectives over to the airport rental car offices to get a list of their customers since the afternoon before Lopez was murdered, just to cover all our bases. We also got the airport to release their security tapes.’’
“You don’t think it’s someone local?’’
“I don’t know. Like I said, just covering the bases. Tomorrow we’ll have someone start punching license plate numbers into the DMV database, do some cross referencing with VICAP. If a green minivan pops up, we might get lucky.’’
“We should get a list of parishioners and volunteers at the church, too.’’
“Good idea. You almost done out there?’’
“I’m just about to go into this bar and talk to Mike Urquia.’’
“They talked to him for over four hours today.’’
“Well, they talked to Greg, too, and they didn’t get the information I got. Is the autopsy done?’’
“Almost done. Morrow and I are waiting to meet with the ME. He told us already that he thinks she’s been dead for more than fifteen hours, out there for ten.’’
“The killer didn’t do a very good job of hiding her. Do you think he wanted us to find her?’’
“He didn’t stage the scene, there were no anonymous tips to lead police to the body. He didn’t leave any messages or clues. He just dumped her. Maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe he’s that sure of himself.’’
“Did anything else turn up at the scene?’’
“Well, the body bag, which was the best hope for prints, was totally clean. We are working to match the semen and pubic hair to Mike Urquia. All physical evidence indicates that the intercourse was consensual, and Urquia admitted to sleeping with her. We also scraped under her nails and hope there’s DNA evidence, but that will only help to eliminate or confirm a suspect. And obviously results will take a while to come back.’’
“So, nothing?’’
“We’re waiting for toxicology to come back – things are slow as shit in these backwater jurisdictions,’’ he said.
“All right, well, I’ll meet you back at the house.’’
“I have an ugly feeling about this, Lydia. Watch yourself.’’
She laughed at his paternal concern. “I thought you didn’t believe in feelings.’’
He didn’t answer her.
“If you don’t think I can handle a few rednecks then you don’t know me very well,’’ she said, trying and failing to lighten the mood.
“That’s not what I mean,’’ he answered quietly.
“No. I know. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.’’
The bar was dark and Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven’’ blared from the jukebox in the corner behind the pool table. A few warped cues hung on the paneled wall next to a plastic Marlboro clock. It was like a million other dives in small towns across the country. Dirty and full of smoke, inhabited by overweight, flannel- and denim-clad men who looked like they knew no more familiar sight than their own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
She perched herself on a stool near the window and waited for the bartender to notice her, which she thought wouldn’t be long since all eyes had been on her from the moment she walked through the door. The bartender, a small woman with teased blond hair and an excess of blue eyeshadow, walked toward Lydia, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She wore tight, tapered acid-wash jeans, and a cut-up white sweatshirt over a black tank top, Flashdance-style. The eighties had been an ugly decade.
“What can I get for you, honey?’’
“Guinness on tap?’’ Lydia asked hopefully.
“’Fraid not. Coors or Bud on tap. Or Pabst in a can.’’
Of course. “Coors, then. Thanks.’’
When the bartender returned with her beer, Lydia asked, “Do you know where I can find Mike Urquia?’’
“I haven’t seen him tonight.’’ She glanced at the clock behind her. “He’s usually here by now.’’
“Do you know where he works or where I can find him?’’
“Are you with the police or something?’’
“Not exactly.’’
“Then what do you want with him?’’
Lydia worked hard to conceal her rising annoyance with the woman and put on her best charming smile. “It’s rather personal, but if you must know, I think he may be the father of my child.’’
Lydia suppressed a belly laugh at the woman’s shocked expression. She was glad Jeffrey wasn’t here to see this; he always hated it when she fucked with innocent people. She could imagine him getting up and walking away so the girl couldn’t see his face.
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know anything about him.’’
“He’s here every night but you don’t know anything about him?’’
“Look, I just serve beer to the customers. I don’t get involved in their personal lives. Are you sure you’re not with the police? You’re not from around here.’’
“No, I’m not. Look, let me give you my number…’’ Before she could finish, she noticed the woman was looking past her to a man walking in the door.
“Hey, Mike,’’ called one of the barflies.
Lydia turned around to see a tall, dark-haired man with a mustache amble through the door. He was entirely clad in denim, with a sizable belly straining against the mother-of-pearl buttons on his shirt. Cowboy boots added about two inches to his already large frame. She didn’t get a good look at his eyes as he walked past her. He gave his hand in greeting to the man who had called his name.
“Hey, Rusty. How you doin’?’’ he asked amiably.
Rusty raised his glass. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.’’
“There’s your man, honey,’’ the bartender sang. Lydia ached to smack her, for no good reason, imagining that many people shared her feelings.
Mike had seated himself, back to the wall at a small table near the jukebox. Lydia walked over and sat down across from him like she’d known him all her life. He looked sullen, tired. But he perked up considerably when Lydia joined him.
“Are you Mike Urquia?’’ she asked, in a tone she knew would immediately dash whatever hopes he had – official, cold.
“I am.’’
“I’m Lydia Strong, I have some questions about Maria Lopez. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me?’’
He looked over at the other people at the bar and then leaned in close to her. “Look, lady, I don’t want any more shit from you people. I had nothing to do with her death. Sure I fucked her and I was there the night they say she was killed, but I didn’t do it. If you want to ask me any more questions, you’re going to have to arrest me.’’
“Mr. Urquia, I know you didn’t do it but I want to find out who did. As far as I understand, you were the only person close to Maria and you were the last person to see her alive. I want to find out about her, about who she was.’’
“Close to her? Lady,’’ he said, and chuckled, “I wasn’t that close to her. To these people, ‘close’ means I fucked her more than once – twice in my case. Look, I got a wife and two kids living about twenty miles from here. I come here to blow off some steam. When she came on to me, I took her home. Some of the guys around here said she gave good head, sometimes you had to pay her a little something. She was attractive enough – what can I say? But I don’t know a thing about her. I’m sorry if something bad happened to her, but I didn’t even know her last name until the police came and questioned me.’’
She looked at him and felt a little nauseated by him, by people’s ability to use one another so cheaply. “Did you talk at all? Did she say one word about herself to you? Anything about someone who had been bothering her, following her?’’
He looked like he wanted to say yes, to get the heat off of himself for a moment. “No, we really didn’t have…you know,’’ he paused, searching for the right words, “any conversations.’’
“So, basically, what you’re telling me is that you took her home because you heard she gave good head, threw her down, fucked her, and then left. And the only time she opened her mouth was to put your dick in it?’’
He leaned back in his chair, put his thumbs through his belt loops. “Basically, yes,’’ he said without a trace of shame, a wide grin across his face.
Sadly, Lydia could see that he was telling the truth. “One more question. Did you see any vehicles on the street when you left Maria Lopez’s apartment that night?’’
“The cops asked me that question.’’
“And what did you tell them?’’
“It was dark.’’
“Think for a second, Mr. Urquia. Did you see any vehicles?’’ Lydia was careful. There was a fine line between leading someone to tell you what you want to hear and jogging their memory.
“There were some cars parked but I didn’t notice what make and model.’’
“Cars only? Could there have been anything larger
– say, an SUV or a van?’’
“Actually, I think was a van,’’ he said, casting his eyes down and to the right. “I couldn’t say a color exactly because it was dark but maybe blue, or black. It wasn’t a van, though. It was one of those minivans.’’
“When you exited the apartment, was the car to the left or to the right of the front door?’’
“To the right.’’
She pulled her card from the inside pocket of her coat and slipped it across the table. “Please hold on to this, Mr. Urquia. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’’
She got up and strode out, throwing a ten on the bar as she left.
At midnight, the coroner’s office was dead quiet. Maria Lopez’s autopsied body lay covered on the metal examination table. The fluorescent lights buzzed quietly, flickering slightly every few minutes, casting the stark room in a cold eerie light. A leaky faucet dripped rhythmically into the aluminum sink. The sound was measured, not actually distracting, but it was annoying Morrow, who had gotten up from his seat at the conference table in the next room twice to try to tighten the spigot.
The conference room was bathed in the same cold harsh light. Jeffrey, Simon, and Henry Wizner, the chief medical examiner, sat slouched around a conference table littered with their notes, photographs, and the empty wrappers from the meal they had eaten while working. Long hours of poring over the same material had wearied each of them and it showed in their wrinkled shirts, loosened ties, and the dark circles forming under their eyes.
Henry Wizner stood over six feet tall, and was so thin as to be gaunt. With ivory skin, large dark eyes, and hair as black as coal, he looked like a ghost of himself. Soft-spoken with a British accent, Wizner exuded the quiet authority of a man who knew he was the best of his profession. His intelligence and wit were as sharp as the scalpel he used to do his job.
He took pleasure in his work, always marveling at the damage people do to each other and to themselves, at what the human body could endure – and what it couldn’t. Twisted bones, broken flesh, disembowelment, decapitation…he’d seen it all and then some. It had taken on a cartoonlike unreality for him, something that allowed him to sleep at night.
Maria Lopez was a mess. He’d seen worse cases, but nothing quite so intriguing in a while. “Well, it’s interesting,’’ remarked Wizner, “because this almost looks like the work of a surgeon. It’s no hack job. It’s not like someone just reached into her chest cavity and ripped the heart out.’’
“And according to your report,’’ interjected Jeffrey, “she was dead before the incision was made and the organs removed. But alive when he slashed her throat…?’’
“Yes.’’
“Because of the rash around her nose and mouth, you believe that he used chloroform to subdue her.’’
“Yes.’’
“Where does one obtain chloroform?’’
“You can get it easily enough over the Internet… if you know where to look. You can also make it by mixing bleach and acetone and distilling it. Chances are, if he knows how to use a scalpel, he knows how to get or make chloroform. It was once used as an anesthetic and they probably still say a word or two about it in med school.’’
“So you think this guy has a medical background.’’
“It would be a reasonable guess.’’
“And where the fuck is her heart?’’ said Morrow.
“A couple of years ago, I don’t know if you gentlemen remember,’’ began Wizner, “an American tourist was beaten to death in South America. She was there to pick up a child she had adopted. The natives had been spooked by a rumor that Americans had been abducting children then stealing their organs for trade on the black market.’’
“I do remember. The Bureau had some men down there,’’ Jeffrey said, glancing up from the picture of Maria’s body at the crime scene. Lydia was in the shot, and he’d been looking at her, half listening to Wizner.
Morrow had no idea what they were talking about so he kept quiet, not wanting to seem uninformed.
“Of course, UNOS was outraged and went to great trouble in publishing reports about these supposedly unsubstantiated claims, claiming it was an urban myth with no evidence to support it. But meanwhile the reports kept coming in; there were television shows airing in Europe; Dateline did a show here featuring a man who claimed his corneas were stolen.’’
“You can’t be suggesting that this is actually happening here. It’s impossible,’’ said Jeffrey, incredulous. “You can’t just take any organ out of some random person and plug it into someone else. There are strict time constraints, batteries of tests that need to be run. You’re a doctor, you know this.’’
“Clearly it wouldn’t be safe. But I’m not sure it’s as impossible as UNOS makes it sound. It would just take a little corruption and a little organization.’’
“That’s ridiculous,’’ Jeffrey said, too tired for some far-fetched theorizing when he was lacking what he really needed – cold hard, undeniable facts.
“Look, all I’m saying is the Lopez heart was removed with skill;
it is currently nowhere to be found. One can only hope that it is being put to good use. Don’t look so green, Mr. Mark.’’ Wizner was smiling and it made him look like a ghoul.
Jeffrey hated the glib indifference he found so common to those professionals accustomed to the unspeakably grotesque. He had managed to keep his humanity over the years, in spite of the horrors he had witnessed. He wondered why others had not.
Nonetheless, what Wizner said made a sick kind of sense. But it was too out there at this point to bear any real looking-into.
He began to roll down his sleeves, which had been pushed up past his elbows. He was getting ready to call it a night. “Morrow, first thing in the morning we should head over to that church. Lydia said the Fox girl had some involvement there, and she seems sure that the crucifixes you found came from there as well.’’
“Most people in this town have some connection to that church. People are pretty religious here, like I said. And that blind healer is a local celebrity. The priest there, Father Luis, is a bastion of this community,’’ Morrow said.
“Whatever, it still bears looking into. If all the victims attended that church, which we don’t know for sure that they did, then it’s possible the killer is connected to it, too. It would really help if we could come up with another body. I suggest you have some of your men comb the park where we found Maria Lopez and see if they turn anything up.’’
Wizner quietly began gathering his notes and photographs with his thin, delicate white hands. He placed the papers in a manila envelope, which he slid under his arm after donning his brown cotton jacket. “I hope you’ll keep in mind what I said, Mr. Mark,’’ he said, walking out the door without pausing for an answer.
“I will. Thanks for your help,’’ Jeffrey said, not noticing that Wizner was already down the hall.
In silence Morrow and Jeffrey gathered the rest of the materials scattered on the table. Photographs of the missing people, now presumed murder victims, hung on a bulletin board in the corner of the room, similar to the one Lydia and Jeffrey had set up back at the house. Jeffrey paused to look at them again.
In high school, Jeffrey had always been troubled by The Bridge of San Luis Rey, the novel by Thornton Wilder. Several people crossing a bridge are killed when it collapses beneath their feet, sending them all plummeting to their deaths. Their lives were not extraordinary, neither especially wicked or divine. Their deaths seem just a random selection of fate. What worried Jeffrey was thinking that maybe there was no order to the universe after all – just a series of accidents, lucky or unlucky, determining the course of lives. Not very comforting. Especially in his line of work.
“Jeff, are you coming?’’ asked Morrow, after waiting politely for Jeffrey, who’d been standing in front of the bulletin boards for over five minutes.
“Yeah, yeah…sorry.’’
Lydia sat in her car in the driveway leading into her garage. She could see by the absence of lights on inside that Jeffrey was not there. She wasn’t afraid to go inside, she just didn’t want to. A temporary depression had seized her, and instead she sat and smoked in the dark car, feeling like a hole had been cut in her chest and a cold wind was whipping through. She felt exposed, unprotected: the same familiar feeling she suffered every year as the anniversary of her mother’s death approached, but as disturbing as if it were the first time.
The New Mexico night sky was riven with stars, close and bright, like diamonds scattered on velvet. She peered at them through her sunroof, her head resting on the seat. The silence was a presence. The shadows of mountains rose around her.
She thought about Mike Urquia and Maria Lopez’s sad union. She had been so judgmental of him, wondering how he could be so glib and cold. But then it had occurred to her that if her Italian friend from the Eldorado had turned up dead somewhere, she would have had less to tell police about the man she’d slept with less than a week earlier than Urquia had had to say about Maria. She was no better than Mike Urquia. The thought made her sick.
She wondered if Jeffrey would even want her anymore if he knew about this side of her. She imagined trying to tell him about her little sexual assignations, so tawdry and meaningless. Her pathetic attempts to stave off loneliness, her quest for closeness to someone she wasn’t afraid to lose. Jeffrey was so honorable, so upright, how could he ever understand? They never asked each other about their personal lives as far as dating was concerned. It was an understood taboo between them that neither one could stand to know if the other was seeing someone. Jeffrey had had a few relationships when Lydia was in college. She never paid any attention to any of the women in his life because she knew they wouldn’t last. Maybe she’d always known they belonged together and that someday they would be. She couldn’t think about this now, though, with a serial killer on the loose.
She considered heading over to the church to talk to Juno again, maybe have a word with Father Luis, whom she had yet to meet. A glance at her watch told her it was approaching one a.m. Too late for a visit. But she’d have to go tomorrow; the answer was there somewhere, somehow. Did they know their parishioners were missing? Had they missed Shawna? They must have. Could they somehow be involved? A blind, psychic healer/serial killer, that would be a first. She began to laugh and couldn’t stop. It felt like hysteria, the tension she had felt for the last few days catching up with her. She was still laughing when Chief Morrow and Jeffrey pulled up behind her. She stepped out of the car to greet them, wiping her eyes and chuckling.
To Jeffrey it looked like she was sobbing. He pushed the door open and jumped out of the squad car before it had fully stopped moving. “Lyd, what’s wrong?’’ He grabbed her by both arms, and looked into her eyes.
“Nothing, nothing, Jeff. I just had a funny thought and couldn’t stop laughing. I think I’m a little punchy.’’
“Oh. You scared me.’’ He spoke slowly, unconvinced.
“Is everything all right?’’ said Morrow, stepping out of the car. Lydia thought how he looked a little like “the Commish,’’ and she almost started laughing again but controlled herself.
In an unusually pleasant tone she answered, “Yeah, everything’s fine. Have a good night.’’
“I’ll pick you up at eight,’’ Morrow said to Jeffrey.
“Thanks, Chief.’’
Morrow got back in his car, glad to be on his way home. He wondered as he pulled away, not for the first time, if Lydia Strong wasn’t one card short of a deck.
“We really need another body to turn up if we are going to get anywhere,’’ Jeffrey concluded after he had summarized the day’s findings for her.
“Why did he take her heart?’’ Lydia wondered aloud. “What do you think it means to him?’’
“Well, what does it mean to most of us?’’
“Love, metaphorically. Maybe life. Medically it’s the organ that pumps the blood, keeps us alive.’’
“Could he be keeping it as a trophy?’’
“No, it’s too complicated a behavior for it to be only that. Taking the heart is his whole agenda, or at least a significant part. He obviously has a place somewhere dedicated to its removal. We know that Maria was subdued with chloroform, so we know he did not intend to kill her at her apartment. He wanted to kill her at another location and remove her heart. It may be the whole reason why he kills them.’’
“Or how he kills them.’’
“The medical examiner said the incision was made after she died.’’
“But he didn’t expect to kill her so soon.’’
“So what does it mean, then, to lose your heart or to have your heart taken?’’
“To lose someone you love. To lose hope. To lose faith.’’
“Perhaps each of these people offended him or slighted him in some way. Perhaps he was attracted to the women – say Harold was just in the way – and each of them turned him down or was rude to him, in his perception. He took their hearts, the way they took his.’’
“But all the women are so different. Usually when that’s the case, the killer has one physical type that attracts him. There’s one woman in his past that has deeply traumatized him, usually his mother, and he kills her over and over again.’’
“Okay, so let’s think about it – why their hearts? I mean, assuming that we eventually discover Shawna, Harold, and Christine in the same condition we found Maria. What was it about these people that made the killer want to take their hearts?’’
He was tapping his pen on the kitchen tabletop, a gesture Lydia had picked up from him years ago. Lydia was curled up in the window seat, wearing a thick gray sweatshirt, black leggings, and white socks. She arched her back and moved her head side to side to relieve the tension that had settled there. The teakettle whistled hysterically and Jeffrey rose to make them some chamomile. She liked to watch him in the kitchen, his strong shoulders and big hands dealing not with guns and fistfights but kettles and potholders. He looked sweet and somehow irresistibly masculine. She smiled to herself.
“I heard back from Jacob a little while ago.’’
“I didn’t know you had spoken to him.’’
“Yeah. I called him after you left this morning. He ran some checks on Christine and Harold. No activity on bank accounts or credit cards. He checked some rehab clinics around the area but nothing there, either. No arrest records in surrounding towns. I guess I was really hoping you were wrong, that these people were just going to turn up. I should know better than to question your instincts.’’
“I’m sorry about today, Jeffrey.’’
He paused, surprised that she had apologized. “It’s all right, Lyd. I’m sorry, too,’’ he answered as he put honey in the tea, keeping his back to her. “I know you’re worked up about this.’’
“Still, I shouldn’t have bit your head off.’’
“Which time?’’ he asked, smiling.
“Any time,’’ she answered solemnly.
He placed the tea in front of her and touched her face with fingers warm from the cup he had just held. She reached for his hand and put her mouth to his palm. It was a warm and passionate gesture. He stood still as she held his hand to her mouth, wanting so much but too afraid to touch her for fear the moment would pass too soon.
Inside, she struggled against herself. How close he is this moment, how easy it would be to surrender. But she released his hand finally, stared down at her teacup. He sat in the chair across from her, not wanting to speak, afraid his voice would fail him.
“They were alone,’’ she said, slicing the tension between them.
“Who?’’
“Maria Lopez and the others. No one cared about them.’’
“I know. It makes you think, you know? Well, it makes me think.’’
“Think about what?’’
“About loneliness.’’
She looked over her teacup at him with surprised, questioning eyes. “Are you lonely, Jeffrey?’’
“Aren’t you?’’
She rose quickly from her seat and walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and looked in for nothing except an escape from his eyes.
“What does this have to do with anything?’’ she said defensively.
He took off his glasses and rubbed the point on his nose where they rested and leaned back in his chair. “I’m so fucking sick of this.’’
“Of what?’’
“Of this little dance we do. I approach you, you back away. You come back a step, I move in again, you take two more steps back. Who are we kidding?’’
“What are you talking about?’’ she asked the milk carton.
He got up and gently turned her around from the refrigerator. The frustration that had been building inside him was reaching a level that was getting hard to ignore. “Oh, come on. Are you going to pretend there’s nothing between us? Are you going to pretend you don’t know how I feel about you?’’
“Jeffrey, please…’’ she said.
He looked into her eyes and saw fear there and he instantly hated himself. He pulled her into a tight embrace which she returned with equal passion.
“If we…I Oh God,’’ she said into his shoulder.
Suddenly the dim kitchen was flooded with light, startling them both. The outside floodlights, triggered by the motion detectors that surrounded the house, had turned on. He walked over to the window and peered out to the driveway. Had someone just stepped out of his sight? Or was it his imagination?
“Do you still have that Glock?’’
“Yeah…’’
“Go get it.’’
She ran quickly to her office, punched a code into the keypad lock on the safe beneath her desk and withdrew the heavy semiautomatic pistol. Beside it was a.38 Special, a revolver favored by older cops, less powerful but more reliable. She had been trained to use both during her stay at the FBI academy but had never fired them off the range. She liked the way the Glock felt, cool and heavy in her hand. She returned to the kitchen, where Jeffrey had turned off the light and was peering out the window. She handed the gun to him.
“Loaded?’’
“Of course.’’
“Stay here,’’ he said sternly, knowing her instinct would be to follow him.
He walked out onto the driveway, gun level. He heard nothing but he sensed a presence, something or someone, waiting. He walked toward the trees that edged the house, his ears pricked for even the slightest noise. He could see nothing through the trees, just an impenetrable darkness.
“Do you see anything?’’
He spun around to see Lydia standing directly behind him, hugging herself against the chill, still in stocking feet. A less-experienced marksman would have discharged his gun from the jolt she gave him.
“Jesus Christ, Lydia, I told you to stay in the house.’’
“There’s no way I’m letting you come out here alone.’’
In the next instant Jeffrey heard someone cut and run into the woods. He was after him in a heartbeat, following the large, dark form through the thick trees. The intruder’s flight was panicked, clumsy, but he was oddly fast for someone so large. Jeffrey could feel the distance between them growing and he picked up his pace, pushing aside the branches that slapped at his arms and face.
“Jeffrey!’’ Lydia yelled after him, then ran into the house to get her shoes and her other gun.
His call of “Freeze, motherfucker – ’’ shot like a bullet through the night air, but it only served to urge the intruder on with greater speed. Jeffrey had been in law enforcement far too long to shoot a fleeing suspect in the back.
Suddenly he lost sight of the form in the darkness. Jeffrey stopped when he realized that whoever it was had eluded him unexplainably. The night was alive with mysterious noises and bright stars above, but Jeffrey was alone with the sound of his own breathing, labored from the chase. He searched the area for any sign of the intruder’s escape route, but he was impeded by his poor eyesight, his glasses still sitting on the kitchen table. He sensed that he was alone, that no one was waiting in ambush for him. In the far distance, he heard the sound of a struggling ignition.
He slipped his gun into the waist of his jeans and began walking back toward the house. He could not be sure how far he had come and he could not see the lights through the trees. The shapes around him were difficult to discern. His heart was still racing from adrenaline and exertion as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a quick, aggravated gesture.
“Shit,’’ he muttered.
He was more than a little annoyed that the intruder had slipped away. It never would have happened a few years ago. Another reminder that he was getting older. Who was it? One of those kids Morrow was claiming caused so much trouble? A common burglar, vandal, vagrant? Even as the multitude of possibilities turned in his mind, he knew the answer. This case, which he had at first regarded with skepticism, was starting to take shape like the trees around him when the moon passed from behind the clouds. He had the sense of something sinister, something twisted, something connected to Lydia.
Darkness, solitude; the two places where thoughts turned most often to her. Tonight his thoughts were edged with worry. Who was hiding in those trees? How long had he been there? Had he been waiting there when Lydia had come home alone?
Jeffrey made his way more steadily now, feeling his way in the moonlight, treading carefully toward the gleam of the houselights he now saw in the distance. An anxiety, a fierce need to protect Lydia arose in him. He could see the look in her eyes just a few minutes before, feel her in his arms. He would die for her. If he could have caught his breath enough to break into a run to her, he would have.
A perfect circle of light bounced before him. He was struggling to see what it was, straining his weak eyes in the darkness, when he heard Lydia calling his name.
“I’m here,’’ he called, “stay still. I’ll come to you.’’
“You’re not hurt, are you?’’ she called.
“No, just old, winded and blind.’’
When she finally saw him, she ran to him but stopped herself from throwing her arms around him. Instead she touched him tenderly on his bad shoulder.
He could see she had a.38 in a holster at her waist.
“Did you see who it was?’’
“No. He got away. I don’t know how…He was big and clumsy. But he was ten feet in front of me one minute and then it seemed like seconds later that I heard an ignition struggling a mile away.’’
“I called the police.’’
“All right.’’
She slipped her arm around his waist and he draped his arm across her shoulders in return. She leaned in close to him as they walked. “Who do you think it was?’’ she asked.
“Who do you think it was?’’ he answered, knowing from her tone what she suspected but did not say.
“It was him.’’
“You don’t know that.’’
“I can feel it.’’
“You say that like it’s proof.’’
“It is for me.’’
They were silent as they walked toward the house which was visible now through the trees.
“What do you think, Jeffrey?’’
“I don’t know.’’
But she knew him too well, knowing his heart and his meaning more by what went unsaid than by the words he uttered, understanding more from the protective tightening of his arm around her shoulder.
She stopped walking and faced him, put her fingers to the rough stubble on his face.
“Seems like you’re always rushing to my rescue.’’
“God knows you’ve come to my rescue a thousand times.’’
“You’re always here when things get out of hand.’’
“It’s my honor, Lydia.’’
“I don’t know what to do, Jeffrey. Give me time.’’
“How much more time do you need, Lydia? What are you so afraid of?’’
He pushed the hair out of her eyes and tilted her face upward with a featherlight touch under her chin. The yearning of years ached inside of her like a hunger she had never been able to sate, that made her weak and unsteady on her feet. He pulled her in close. There was no truer home to her than the one she knew in his arms. That was becoming more clear to her every day. She shivered as if someone were walking over her grave. Her desire and fear seemed almost audible, like sirens in the distance, moving closer from opposite directions, warning of danger.
“Lydia.’’
The tone in his voice was a confession, mirroring her own. And in the second before his lips touched hers, the quiet night was pierced by a cacophony of sirens and the chaos of red-and-blue flashing lights on the street. In what seemed like seconds, the forms of at least ten police officers filtered in through the trees like wraiths.
“Over here,’’ Jeffrey called out to the cops, supporting Lydia as she leaned against him, shaking her head against his chest. “We’re over here.’’
They walked onto the drive. Jeffrey borrowed an officer’s cell phone to call Morrow to tell him what had happened. While she was giving her statement to a young female officer, something near the front door to her house caught Lydia’s eye. She stopped speaking in midsentence and walked toward it. Jeffrey saw her and followed behind. Sitting on the low stone step before the door, was a box wrapped in newsprint.
“I need some latex gloves, a letter opener or a knife, and some tweezers,’’ she said to the officer that had followed her.
“Be careful with that,’’ said Jeffrey.
“He’s not the Unabomber,’’ Lydia responded.
“We don’t know what he is.’’
She shrugged and took a step back. She studied the package from a distance and could see that it was wrapped in the newspaper page featuring the article covering Maria Lopez’s disappearance. When the cop returned with the items she requested, she moved toward the package.
“We should call the bomb squad,’’ said Jeffrey, touching her arm.
“And wait two hours to find out what’s inside? I’ll take my chances. The psychology of the bomber is very different than the psychology of the serial killer.’’
He sat down on the step next to her as she carefully removed the adhesive tape with the penknife and unwrapped the package. Inside sat a bloodred-and-gold Montblanc pen. There was a small white gift card that read simply, Vengeance is mine.