Twenty Four
Simon Morrow hadn’t said a word since he returned home. He’d just sat in the old lawn chair that had been in all the backyards of their marriage. His wife knew well enough to leave him be; so she’d left a plate of food on the table for him and gone out with her friends. It was moments like these when he remembered he was an alcoholic. He felt a hurtful need for a beer as the light dimmed around him and evening fell.
He’d left the scene in disgust. After the hopes he’d had this morning, he’d felt crushed by the events of the afternoon. Is this what it means to be a broken man? he wondered. That’s how he felt. He knew his wife felt differently. She had told him once that he was her hero. It was after the whole incident in St. Louis. She’d said it was because he recognized his faults and worked to make them better. She’d cried a little when she told him how much she admired him. The fact he knew she was sincere made him feel like that much more of a heel.
But he’d always hoped one day to feel worthy of her pride, of her love. Tonight he believed that day might never come, and it hurt – almost as much as his need for a double scotch neat.
He wondered if Bernard Hugo was long gone or if he was hovering someplace nearby, unsure of where to go and what to do. Simon Morrow wondered if maybe he understood a little of the desperation Hugo must feel right now. They had both lost something that had caused them to lose themselves a little. Different, certainly. But wasn’t there always something recognizable in the most insane human reaction to pain?
How often had Simon Morrow wished he could return to the St. Louis station house? Not to go back there for a visit as the man he was today, but to go back to the man he had been in the days he ran the place, pretty damn well, he thought. How highly he’d thought of himself then. Never a moment of self-doubt, self-recrimination. What he wouldn’t give to walk those halls again as a young man. He wondered if Bernard Hugo felt the same way.
Morrow rose and entered his house through the sliding glass doors that led to his comfortable living room. He grabbed his car keys off the countertop in the kitchen, and pulled a light jacket off the back of a table chair. He walked out the front door and went to the police cruiser parked in his driveway. He felt a twinge of self-loathing as he crawled behind the wheel, as if he didn’t deserve to be operating department equipment. He thought he’d just take a little ride over to the hospital where Bernard Hugo used to work.
Each of Juno’s other senses told him he was in the wrong place. The air smelled of roses and peppermint. The bed was too soft, the sheets too fragrant. He could hear Mrs. Turvey puttering downstairs, cleaning dinner dishes and humming softly. He must have dozed after dinner. He had eaten a great deal in spite of his grief and everything he had learned today. But now he was awake. And he knew with certainty that he was in the wrong place. He must return to the church immediately. It wasn’t his mind that told him this. It was not a desire to be surrounded with the things that were familiar to him. And it was not a desire to be alone. It was something larger, something outside himself that told Juno he was in the wrong place.
It wasn’t far and he could certainly walk. He had done so a million times as a child. He was sure he remembered the way. He had his cane with him. Mrs. Turvey had told him when she’d leaned it against the doorjamb. He would need to wait until she went to bed. Otherwise he would only worry her, or she would try to stop him somehow. So he would lie and wait until the house was silent. And then he would go home.
Twenty Five
As they pulled up to the house, two uniformed police officers greeted their car.
“The repairman for the alarm system was here today, Ms. Strong,’’ said one of the baby-faced officers. “He put a new breaker box inside the garage and says it should be fine now.’’
“Perfect,’’ said Jeffrey, “but a little late.’’
“Yes sir,’’ answered the officer.
“Come up for coffee if you get cold, guys,’’ said Lydia, pulling her cream suede coat around her against the chill.
“Thank you, Ms. Strong.’’
It felt strange to her, as she turned the brushed-chrome knob and entered through the front door, that Bernard Hugo had been in her house. The hand that had murdered and removed the hearts of innocent people had been on the same doorknob that hers rested on now. She had felt invaded last night but now that she knew who he was and what he had done, it bothered her even more.
“I wonder why he didn’t wait for us to come home last night.’’
“Who?’’
“Bernard Hugo.’’
“Well, we’re armed, for one.’’
“How would he know that we’re armed?’’
“It’s a reasonable assumption.’’
“Still, if he was really motivated to kill me…’’
“Maybe he doesn’t want to kill you.’’
“What else could he want?’’
“I don’t know, Lyd,’’ he said, moving close to her and leaning in to kiss her.
In the melee, Lydia had barely had a chance to acknowledge the way their relationship had changed, what had happened between them last night. But it felt so natural, far more natural than pushing him away for years had felt. It was as if they had slipped into the relationship they were meant to have all along and the only difference was an overwhelming sense of release.
“What’s the plan?’’ asked Lydia.
“I’m going to take a shower. You make some coffee and then we’ll head out. It’ll be a romantic first date – we’ll look for the Dodge minivan, horn in on a few stakeouts, check out some possible serial-killer hiding spots.’’
“You sure know how to treat a woman, Mr. Mark. And then we’ll go park in front of where Juno is staying?’’
“Sure.’’
As he turned to walk away, Lydia slapped him on the ass. He spun around and looked at her, totally floored by the playful gesture.
She smiled. “I’ve always wanted to do that.’’
He laughed and walked up the stairs to the shower, feeling light with love for her.
As she stood in the pink glow of the kitchen lights, placing ground coffee beans in the filter, she actually felt a little giddy. Then she immediately felt guilty. You have no business acting like a schoolgirl with five people dead and a serial killer on the loose.
The phone rang as she turned the coffeepot on. “Hello?’’
“So what are you going to call the book?’’
“Excuse me? Who is this?’’
“You know who this is.’’
The room swirled around her as she realized it was Hugo. She internally kicked herself for not having the line tapped. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it.
“What do you want, Bernard?’’ she asked, forcing herself to be calm and rational, hoping that Jeffrey would emerge from the shower so he could pick up the other line.
“I want to know what you are going to call the book you write about me.’’
“What makes you think I would write a book about you?’’ she asked, thinking fast.
“Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it?’’
“What’s that?’’
“Write books about killers. I really should thank you.’’
“Thank me for what?’’
“I have read everything you have ever written and you have taught me everything I needed to know to become God’s warrior.’’
“Is that what you think you are?’’
“My son was the sacrificial lamb. He was taken from me and his innocent life lost so that I might do the Lord’s work.’’
“And the Lord’s work entailed the killing of five innocent people?’’
He laughed and the throaty chuckle made Lydia go cold inside. “‘An oracle is within my heart concerning the sinfulness of the wicked,’’’ he said.