Lord have mercy!
13
“A robbery? What are you talking about?”
Father Lopez sat dumbfounded in front of a Gatlinburg police detective. This wasn’t one of the officers he had met at the cabin. This was a different breed entirely. The man’s disorganized room — paperwork, half-filled coffee cups, litter — mirrored the confusion of his thoughts. The patronizing tone of the detective had begun to infuriate him.
“Detective Summers,” Lopez began again, trying to keep his voice under control, “I discovered my brother’s body. I walked through a giant hole blown into the wall of a mountain cabin with enough used shells on the floor and bullet holes in the wall to qualify as a war zone. My brother’s body was riddled with holes, his upper torso half blown away by something. Robbers don’t break into a cabin with dynamite. They don’t pull out automatic weapons and spray bullets around. They don’t blow people’s heads off!”
“Mr. Lopez, please, you are hysterical.”
“You are ridiculous!”
The man adjusted his eyeglasses and pulled on the knot of his tie below his neck. He looked like a man who felt he had been far more than patient with an unruly citizen, and it was beginning to try his nerves.
“Mr. Lopez—Father Lopez, the Gatlinburg police are far from ridiculous. If you wish to see ridiculous, you need to look no further than yourself.”
Lopez stared disbelievingly. “Is this fourth grade?”
“I am serious, sir. I’ve tried to be reasonable with you. Your brother was killed during a robbery. That has been the conclusion of this investigation. You were unfortunate enough to have discovered his body, and it appears to have clouded your judgment.”
“Clouded my judgment? Detective, I didn’t imagine a six-foot diameter blast hole in my family’s cabin!”
“Are you so sure of that?” asked the detective.
Francisco Lopez laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I’m one hundred percent sure of that.”
“Well, Father Lopez, I’ve seen the photographs of the cabin. There is no hole.” The detective tossed several glossy prints toward Father Lopez, who leaned forward again and quickly scanned the images.
“There’s some mistake,” he said in disbelief. It was impossible. The photos showed no damage to the structure. The cabin was certainly his family’s, the location and design easily recognized. But it looked untouched. Every angle showed a well-maintained house in the woods. “When were these taken?”
“The day after the report was filed. These were taken by forensics officers. There is no mistake.” The detective sighed. “Father Lopez, there is counseling available for family members of victims. I suggest you look into this option. You are obviously traumatized by this incident.”
“Traumatized….” Lopez stared uncomprehending at the photographs.
“As for our department, the investigation is closed.”
“Closed? There are killers out there! Even if this is a robbery, someone killed my brother. You can’t just close a murder investigation a few weeks after the crime!”
“The decision’s been made, Mr. Lopez. Lack of any significant leads, I’m afraid. It was my superior’s choice. There is nothing I can do.”
“I want to talk to him!”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I am your contact at the station. We can’t let distraught family members harass those in charge.”
“Then I would like to speak to the officers assigned to the case that day. They were sure it wasn’t a robbery.”
The detective removed his glasses, his face grim. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. Lopez.”
“Why? I demand to speak with those officers!”
“You can demand all you want. It won’t do any good. You can’t see them.” He sighed again, more heavily. “They’re dead, Mr. Lopez. They were killed a few days ago when their patrol car went over the edge of one of the mountain roads. A terrible accident.”
Lopez suddenly felt very cold.
He stepped out of the police station like a man drugged. He was not crazy, that much he knew. Those photos were fakes. He could prove it. He would return to the cabin and examine the scene of the crime himself. Take his own damn pictures. Confront these idiots with the truth. He forced himself to believe this, because he needed the sense that something could be done. He needed the sense that order could come of this chaos. Otherwise, this feeling would overtake him, that something darker and more evil even than his brother’s murder was present. He could be swallowed up in that irrationality, where there was no clear path, only shadows and echoes of shadows.
Half-dazed, he stumbled down the stairs leading away from the station toward the street where his car waited. These new smartphones recorded everything about photos — date, time, location. Perfect evidence. He would document the damage, and then bring the photos back to these idiots. He could think of nothing else to do.
As he neared his vehicle, he glanced up the sidewalk and saw her. She stood with her arms folded across a dark car coat, a crisp spring breeze tossing her yellow hair about. Her expression was serious.
“We can talk here,” she said, placing a small black box on the restaurant table. “This device will scramble directed microphones. Talk softly; you weren’t followed, but we don’t need to advertise anything at this stage.”
The crowd at the Tennessee diner seemed to have gotten over their initial surprise at seeing a black-clad Mexican priest enter with a young woman who seemed every bit the fitness model from her physique. The drone of conversation picked up again, eyes returned to their own tables. Two coffees were placed on the table.
“Ya’ll orderin’ anythin’ else?” came the irritated voice of the waitress.
Houston answered assertively. “Not for now, thank you.” The waitress rolled her eyes and turned to other customers.
Lopez shook his head, staring at the device Houston had placed on the table. “What on earth have I gotten into here?”
Houston eyed him carefully. “How much do you know about what your brother did with the government, Father Lopez?”
He felt unnerved again by her sharp eyes. “Not much, actually. Besides the troubled relationship we’d had for some time, he was pretty tight-lipped about it all. No one knew. He worked as some consultant on issues of national security he wasn’t allowed to talk about. Had top-secret clearances. Seemed to pay well.”
“What if I were to tell you that he was not a consultant.”
Lopez squinted at her. “Not a consultant? What do you mean?”
She sighed. “Miguel never worked as a consultant in D.C. That was a cover.”
“OK,” began Lopez cautiously, “so what the hell did he do? Did he even work for the government?”
“Yes, he did.” She stared into his eyes. “He worked for the CIA.”
“The CIA?” Lopez nearly spilled his coffee. “Miguel was some kind of secret agent?”
“Miguel was a CIA agent, Father Lopez. A highly trained specialist at CIA. He was under deep cover because he performed some extremely sensitive missions.”