“Daddy.’’
He knew better now than to try to touch his son. It only made him go away. He just sat and stared at the beautiful child. The priest held the little boy’s hand. The killer was comforted to see how peaceful he looked. Of course, he knew he had had no choice but to kill Father Luis. But still, Father Luis was such a good man. It was a shame he had come outside when he did.
“Daddy, I’ll take him to God. It’s the only place he ever really wanted to go anyway. You did the right thing. You always do.’’
“Thank you, son.’’
They turned their backs on him and walked into the desert night, fading into nothing. He was overcome with fatigue. So tired, but so much work before him.
And yet another grave to dig.
But first, to finish the task at hand. He walked away from the priest’s lifeless body and returned to the hole he had dug. It was not the first hole he had made in the little garden.
“‘For look, the wicked bend their bows; they set their arrows against the strings to shoot from the shadows at the upright heart,’’’he prayed, as he removed Maria Lopez’s heart from the jar of formaldehyde and placed it in the black wet earth.
His thoughts returned to Lydia Strong. He remembered the day she had stood in this garden. He could see from the look on her face that she sensed something. Of course she could never have imagined or intuited what was buried there. But she would know soon enough. He filled the hole, replaced the flower that was growing there, packing the earth in around the roots and the stem. He pointed the flashlight and assured himself that the ground did not seem disturbed. Then he walked to the van and took a body bag from the back. He lay it on the ground and then rolled the priest’s body into it, zipping it quietly.
Nineteen
Greg stood at the sink, washing up the breakfast plates and watching the man standing outside the garage waiting for service. Though the sun was just up, his father, Joe, would have been in the shop already. But he had left an hour ago, heading to Albuquerque looking for some used parts he needed. Greg dried the dishes and left them on the counter atop a tattered blue dish rag, never taking his eyes off the pacing man and his green minivan. There was something off and edgy about the man. Something that made Greg hesitate before going outside. But Greg decided he was just being silly, spooked by his conversation with Lydia Strong, and headed outside.
“Been waiting long, sir?’’ he called.
“No, no. Sorry to come at this hour, but I have to be at work soon and I heard you opened early,’’ the man said, moving toward Greg.
“What seems to be the problem?’’
“I’m having a bit of trouble with the ignition. It doesn’t seem to catch right away – it sort of stutters.’’ The man demonstrated, and the van coughed as he twisted the ignition a couple of times, then hummed to life.
“Well, why don’t you pull it inside and I’ll have a look.’’
“Um,’’ the man said slowly, looking Greg dead in the eye, “how long do you think this will take? I don’t have much time.’’
“Just a minute. If it’s anything serious, then you can bring it on back later when you’re finished with work.’’
The man nodded and then pulled the van into the garage when Greg lifted the heavy door open.
There was something about this man Greg didn’t like. There was something in his gaze that seemed off balance, that made Greg a bit uneasy. His eyes were bloodshot and his thinning hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days. Greg couldn’t imagine where he was going to work, in heavily muddied jeans and a black sweatshirt that looked like it had been stained with oil or paint.
A quick check under the steering column revealed two loose ignition wires which Greg quickly tightened. He tested the ignition and the engine caught right away.
Good. Now the guy could leave.
“Just a second,’’ Greg said to the man, “let me just check one more thing.’’ He couldn’t believe what he was doing and he didn’t know why, but he slipped under the car. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote the vehicle-identification number on his arm where he could pull his sleeve back down over it.
“Well, sir. It was just a couple of loose wires. I tightened them and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’’
“Thanks. How much do I owe you?’’
“Forget it; it really was no trouble.’’
“Sure?’’
“Yeah. My father would kill me, says I’m not much of a businessman. But I just can’t see charging people for nothing. So maybe you’ll bring your car back when there’s a real problem or tell your friends about our garage.’’
“You bet. Thanks a lot. Mind if I use your restroom?’’
“Outside and around back,’’ said Greg following him out.
When the man rounded the corner of the building, Greg wrote down the license-plate number. It was probably a silly thing to do, there were so many green minivans around.
The sky was a crystalline blue and there was a light breeze. Greg looked up and immediately saw two vultures circling low off in the distance. Today was something’s last sunrise, thought Greg. He didn’t notice the driver coming up fast behind him as he turned and headed back into the garage.
Twenty
Jeffrey awoke before Lydia the following morning and lay beside her, watching her breathe, watching the delicate rise and fall of her chest. One arm was draped over her rib cage, one thrown above her head, hair spread around her pillow. He brushed a jet-black strand from her cheek and allowed himself to be overwhelmed. She opened her eyes slightly, peered at him through lowered lids, and smiled.
“Feel okay?’’ she asked.
“Never better. You?’’
“I feel good,’’ she said simply. “This feels…’’
“Natural?’’
“Yeah. I just thought it might be weird, after all these years, to wake up beside you like this. But it feels like I’m finally in the right place, you know?’’
“I know,’’ he said kissing her lightly on the mouth.
“The temptation is to lie here all day with you, but we really need to get moving,’’ said Lydia as she sighed, sitting up and looking at the clock.
“You’re right,’’ he said, the memory of last night’s events and the knowledge that Lydia was in danger moving over his thoughts like a stormcloud. “Let’s go talk to Benny Savroy.’’
The home of Benjamin Savroy and his mother, Greta, looked like a gingerbread house in all its impossible charm and sweetness. Painted red with white shutters, each windowsill held a colorful flowerbox. The lawn was perfectly manicured and lined with lush green shrubs and a white picket fence. Lydia and Jeffrey approached the house by its cobblestone walkway. To the right of the path was a gorgeous flower garden, as lush and well tended as the church garden. She noted many of the same plants and the same wet black earth that she had seen at the Holy Name. She wondered if Benny tended both gardens.
They were greeted at the door by a woman who looked like everyone’s favorite grandmother. Small and plump, with thick gray hair pulled into a braided bun, Greta was wearing a red T-shirt under a denim jumper. Her ruddy complexion seemed to glow and her blue eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness.
“Listen,’’ she said with an unmistakable New York accent, blocking the doorway, “Father Luis called to say you private investigators might be dropping by. I don’t want anyone bothering my son. He’s a good boy and he never causes trouble.’’
“Mrs. Savroy – ’’ began Lydia.
“Ms.’’ she interrupted.
“Ms. Savroy, we don’t want to bother your son. We just want to ask him a few questions.’’