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Authors: Christine Barber
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than a few cops.
Adam got out of his van holding his work case. He adjusted his tall white turban, which must have been jostled in the process of getting out. Adam was a Sikh, one of the thousand or so that lived in the area. Most resided in the Hacienda de Guru Ram Das Ashram in Española, about thirty miles to the north, but some, including Adam, lived in Santa Fe.
Gil had known Granger for years. Their daughters were on the same soccer team. Adam had left the ashram when he was sixteen, dropping his Sikh name and the religion’s ways. He had been tired of being known as a White Sikh—which was what some India-born Sikhs called the Anglo Westerners who lived in the ashram. Those Sikhs considered everyone at the ashram pretenders. Over the years, however, Adam softened his rebellion and decided to wear a turban again to show his faith. His parents didn’t seem to mind either way. Gil had met them once at a state soccer championship. They stood out in their white clothes and turbans, watching their granddaughter with beatific smiles on their faces.
The men shook hands, and Adam said, “Let me see it.” They walked over together to the statue, where Adam let out a low whistle, saying, “Now this is messed up.”
“How fast can you do this?” Gil said, knowing that they wererunning out of time. They couldn’t keep the street closed for much more than a half hour before arousing suspicion from the public and the press.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Adam said, taking his camera out of his case. “There’s no use processing the area because of cross-contamination. It’s really just a fingerprints and photo job. I can do the paperwork later. Maybe about fifteen minutes.”
Gil left Adam to do his work. He wandered into the quiet enclosed courtyard of the Santuario and sat on an old wooden bench. Yet another statue of Mary—this one of her image at Lourdes—was in a niche in front of him. A few late-summer roses were still blooming on the dozens of bushes that ringed the cool courtyard. Gil closed his eyes and said a vicious prayer. It was one of pure vengeance, tempered only by his request for justice. Gil had grown up expressing his most primal emotions through prayer. He remembered as a teenager confessing to God the usual things on a boy’s mind, their conversations rife with lust and longings. Gil had never understood those people who said that prayers must be pure and clean. He saw God as the only one who would understand his deepest, darkest, and most disturbing emotions. It was God who created them.
Gil made the sign of the cross. Then he took a deep breath. He had used the prayer as an outlet for his rage, but he couldn’t allow himself that luxury again. Now he needed to be persistent, controlled, and methodical. That was his advantage. That was how he had solved every case in his ten-year career. It would work in this case as well.
He dug his cell phone out of his pants pocket. He looked at the time—10:20 A.M. —before he speed-dialed his mom at home.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, Mom. I was just calling to see if you checked your blood sugar yet.”
“Hi, hito. Oh, no, I haven’t had time.”
“De veras?” Gil said, exasperated. “Mom, you’re going to be sitting through Mass at the cathedral for at least an hour. If your blood sugar isn’t high enough you could pass out.”
“Okay, okay, hito,” she said. “I’ll go find the machine . . .”
Joe walked into the courtyard, oblivious that Gil was on the phone. He started to pace in circles around the perimeter of the courtyard.
“I want this guy, Gil.”
“Joe, I’m on the—”
“I mean I want this guy. I want to stomp on his head and cut his balls off. No, wait. First I want to cut his balls off, then—”
“I’m on the phone,” Gil said again, then, into the phone, “Mom, I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back.”
“I think your Aunt Yolanda is here,” she said.
“Mom, okay, so I—”
“Goddamn
Adam got out of his van holding his work case. He adjusted his tall white turban, which must have been jostled in the process of getting out. Adam was a Sikh, one of the thousand or so that lived in the area. Most resided in the Hacienda de Guru Ram Das Ashram in Española, about thirty miles to the north, but some, including Adam, lived in Santa Fe.
Gil had known Granger for years. Their daughters were on the same soccer team. Adam had left the ashram when he was sixteen, dropping his Sikh name and the religion’s ways. He had been tired of being known as a White Sikh—which was what some India-born Sikhs called the Anglo Westerners who lived in the ashram. Those Sikhs considered everyone at the ashram pretenders. Over the years, however, Adam softened his rebellion and decided to wear a turban again to show his faith. His parents didn’t seem to mind either way. Gil had met them once at a state soccer championship. They stood out in their white clothes and turbans, watching their granddaughter with beatific smiles on their faces.
The men shook hands, and Adam said, “Let me see it.” They walked over together to the statue, where Adam let out a low whistle, saying, “Now this is messed up.”
“How fast can you do this?” Gil said, knowing that they wererunning out of time. They couldn’t keep the street closed for much more than a half hour before arousing suspicion from the public and the press.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Adam said, taking his camera out of his case. “There’s no use processing the area because of cross-contamination. It’s really just a fingerprints and photo job. I can do the paperwork later. Maybe about fifteen minutes.”
Gil left Adam to do his work. He wandered into the quiet enclosed courtyard of the Santuario and sat on an old wooden bench. Yet another statue of Mary—this one of her image at Lourdes—was in a niche in front of him. A few late-summer roses were still blooming on the dozens of bushes that ringed the cool courtyard. Gil closed his eyes and said a vicious prayer. It was one of pure vengeance, tempered only by his request for justice. Gil had grown up expressing his most primal emotions through prayer. He remembered as a teenager confessing to God the usual things on a boy’s mind, their conversations rife with lust and longings. Gil had never understood those people who said that prayers must be pure and clean. He saw God as the only one who would understand his deepest, darkest, and most disturbing emotions. It was God who created them.
Gil made the sign of the cross. Then he took a deep breath. He had used the prayer as an outlet for his rage, but he couldn’t allow himself that luxury again. Now he needed to be persistent, controlled, and methodical. That was his advantage. That was how he had solved every case in his ten-year career. It would work in this case as well.
He dug his cell phone out of his pants pocket. He looked at the time—10:20 A.M. —before he speed-dialed his mom at home.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, Mom. I was just calling to see if you checked your blood sugar yet.”
“Hi, hito. Oh, no, I haven’t had time.”
“De veras?” Gil said, exasperated. “Mom, you’re going to be sitting through Mass at the cathedral for at least an hour. If your blood sugar isn’t high enough you could pass out.”
“Okay, okay, hito,” she said. “I’ll go find the machine . . .”
Joe walked into the courtyard, oblivious that Gil was on the phone. He started to pace in circles around the perimeter of the courtyard.
“I want this guy, Gil.”
“Joe, I’m on the—”
“I mean I want this guy. I want to stomp on his head and cut his balls off. No, wait. First I want to cut his balls off, then—”
“I’m on the phone,” Gil said again, then, into the phone, “Mom, I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back.”
“I think your Aunt Yolanda is here,” she said.
“Mom, okay, so I—”
“Goddamn
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