She got up and walked over to him, and without hesitation wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him. She felt his body relax and he folded her in his arms. She didn’t care who saw them or what anyone thought. She was just glad she didn’t have to face her demons alone anymore.
The chief approached them. “Jeff, can I have a word with you?’’
Lydia bristled at her exclusion, but she tried not to eavesdrop as the two walked out into the hallway, and pretended instead to be looking closely at the collages on the walls. At first the chief looked contrite and almost ashamed. Jeffrey’s jaw was set the way it generally was when he would reprimand Lydia. And then she saw the chief’s face flush in anger as he raised his voice a bit.
“Don’t forget who runs the show here, Mr. Mark,’’ he said, and stormed from the house, climbed into his car, and pulled quickly down the drive, his tires spitting up gravel.
“What was that all about?’’ she asked as Jeffrey returned to her, shaking his head.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps.’’
They walked out the front door of the house and got into Lydia’s Kompressor, and started for home.
On the way back, Lydia shared with Jeffrey her conversation with Juno.
“It doesn’t seem possible that someone could believe a story like that,’’ Jeffrey said skeptically.
“I agree that it’s hard to believe, but trust me when I tell you it’s true. He had no idea what actually happened to his parents until I told him.’’
“How did he take it?’’
“Badly. It was sad. He was such an innocent and that’s lost now. Bernard Hugo murdered his innocence.’’
They were both silent for a moment as Lydia drove fast on the dark, winding road toward home, the Mercedes hugging curves, graceful and silent.
“So, if you were Bernard Hugo, what would be your next move?’’ Lydia asked Jeffrey.
“Well, it depends. If I came back this way and saw my house swarming with cops and I was sane, I’d probably dump the minivan, steal another vehicle or hop a bus and get out of Dodge.’’
“But if you weren’t sane, if you needed to stick around for some reason, where would you hide?’’
“In all those miles of desert and mountains…all I need is a tent and some supplies. But why would I want to stick around?’’
“Because the man who killed your son, the man whose heart is the most false of all, is still alive. His heart is still beating and every day it does, it’s a greater insult to God.’’
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
