I Shall Not Want (8 page)

Everything that’s happened between the chief and MacAuley
. It was a waste and a shame, as his dad would have said: two old guys who worked so well together they could have a whole conversation with a word and a look. Now, those were the only conversations they had.

“If Kevin runs into anything heavy while he’s out with Officer Knox, he’ll call it in. Right?”

In like Flynn
. “Yessir.” Kevin glanced toward her again, this time smiling reassuringly. Her face, looking back at him, was blank. What did that mean? Was she nervous about riding with him? Pissed off because she wasn’t going with one of the more experienced guys?

“Eric, catch us up on the Christie B and E.” They were up to the current investigations. Kevin returned his attention to his notebook.

McCrea flopped open the case folder and began to recite. “Saturday, April six, at five thirty P.M., Bruce Christie reported returning home to find his trailer in the Meadowbrook Estates trailer park had been broken into. The interior had been trashed, as near as Noble and I could tell”—there was some snickering on this—“but he
said
nothing was missing. The manager reports seeing a vehicle speeding out of the park entrance at approximately five thirty P.M. No description, other than it was ‘big and expensive.’ ” He glanced up from his notes. “That might mean any pickup or SUV with more steel than rust. Christie suggested it might be someone his two brothers owe money to and gave us a list of names.” He pulled a short stack of papers from the file and tossed them to Kevin, who took one and passed it on. “The manager suggested it might have
been
the two brothers.” McCrea looked up. “I tend to discount that. Whatever else you can say about the Christies, they hang tight together.”

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” MacAuley said, under his breath.

“What do you think they were looking for?” the chief asked McCrea.

He shrugged. “Money? Pot? Neil Christie was up for distributing a few years back. Got it knocked down to possession.”

“Sheep?” someone said. There was a snort of laughter, stifled.

“Why did he report it?” The question was out of Kevin’s mouth before he remembered he was trying to appear cool and knowledgeable in front of their new officer. “If the intruders were looking for something illegal, I mean.” God, he sounded lame.

The chief swiveled toward him. “You tell me.”

“Um… he’s genuinely clean?”

MacAuley snorted, but the chief gestured for him to go on. Kevin thought furiously. “He was lying about nothing being missing. He’s counting on us to lead him to the guys who took whatever it was.”

The chief tapped his nose. “Something to consider, isn’t it?” He looked at McCrea. “And, of course, it could be someone with a grudge, looking to beat the crap out of Bruce Christie and settling for wrecking his place. Between the three of ‘em, the Christie brothers have a record as thick as the Cossayuharie Directory. Assault, possession—” He glanced at MacAuley. “Didn’t one of them do time for resisting?”

“Donald. Got five in Plattsburgh, out in three. Tried to run over the state trooper who was taking him in for D and D.”

“So, be careful.” The chief pointed at McCrea. “Anything strikes you funny, ease off and call for backup.”

“Will do, Chief.”

The chief pushed the chairs away and slid off the table. “That’s all.” He gathered up his folders and stalked out of the squad room. Through the doorway, Kevin could hear Harlene telling him about his calls.

“Christies. They put the dirt in dirt poor.” MacAuley shook his head. He squinted up at McCrea from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I’ve been to Bruce Christie’s place. How did you tell where the deliberate trashing ended and the usual trashing began?”

McCrea snorted. “I wouldn’t have wanted to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary, I’ll tell you.” He jerked a thumb toward Entwhistle. “Noble here was freaked out by the great big googly-eyed Jesus tapestry he had tacked to the wall.”

“It was creepy,” Noble agreed. “Its eyes followed you around. Like in that Stephen King book.”

“
Carrie
,” Kevin supplied.

“Thank you, Kevin.” McCrea smiled at him.
Shit
. There he was, doing it again. He had to stop trying to be so damn helpful all the time.

“You know how you know if a Christie girl is still a virgin?” MacAuley grinned. “She can run faster than her brothers.”

McCrea looked at him meaningfully and nudged his head toward Hadley Knox.

“Uh—” The deputy chief was seized with a convenient coughing fit.

Hadley rose from her seat. Looked at MacAuley. Looked at McCrea. “The way I heard it, it’s if she can run faster than the sheep.” She tucked her folder beneath her arm. “You coming, Flynn?”

Clare was three miles out of Millers Kill, at the end of a five-hour drive from Fort Dix, when she realized she was out of booze. She groaned, thinking of returning to her cold house—when she was away for Guard training, she turned the thermostat down to fifty to save on oil—and facing the evening with nothing but some undoubtedly sour milk and a two-day-old Thermos of coffee. No wine. No sherry. No scotch.

No way. She cruised up Route 57, watching the river that gave the town its name running brown and gold beneath the long rays of the setting sun. Driving past St. Alban’s, she continued on toward Main, then crossed over the river, headed for the town line. She’d been doing her shopping in Glens Falls, the better to avoid running into Russ Van Alstyne. But Napoli’s Discount Liquor ought to be safe, seeing as the chief of police was a nondrinking alcoholic.

In the parking lot, she unfolded out of her seat and stretched gratefully—up, down, and side to side. The breeze from the west was still cool with the snow lingering in the mountains, but the warmth thrown off by the asphalt testified to the power of the spring sun. Winter was gone, and good freaking riddance to it. If she never saw another snowflake in her life, it wouldn’t be too soon.

She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and checked her messages. One from her parents touching base, one from Deacon Elizabeth de Groot, assuring her that they were all doing splendidly without her, and one from Hugh Parteger. “Vicar! Thanks for stopping by for lunch on your way to that pestilent place south of the Palisades.” She assumed he meant New Jersey. Hugh may have been born in England, but he was a true New Yorker at heart. “Next time”—his voice dropped—“why don’t you just
tell
your congregation you’re reporting for duty and stay the weekend with me? I promise I can show you maneuvers the U.S. Army has yet to think of.”

“Not happening, Hugh,” she told the phone. She erased the message, laughing.

Checking out her order, Mr. Napoli kept peering at her, frowning a bit as he placed the Macallan’s and the Harveys and the bottles of Shiraz in their narrow paper bags. It wasn’t until she produced her driver’s license and checkbook that he smiled at her. “Reverend Fergusson!” He clutched her license with both hands, his eyes shifting from her picture, to her, and back again. “I didn’t recognize you, with all these soldier clothes on.” He gestured up and down, taking in her desert camo battle dress uniform. “We haven’t seen you in here lately! Now I can tell Mrs. Napoli why.” He took her check,
tch
ing. “The army. Is that any place for a sweet girl like you?”

Clare remembered, too late, that she had also been avoiding appearing in public in uniform. Too many explanations. She smiled flirtatiously. “Now, Mr. Napoli. You’ve seen my birth date.” She slid her license off the counter. “I’m hardly a girl anymore.” While he was gallantly defending her right to be juvenalized two months shy of her thirty-seventh birthday, she extricated herself with a promise not to be “a stranger.” Bumping out the door with a bagful of booze, she reminded herself to take her civvies with her next time she reported for Guard service, and change
before
she got in her car to go home.

Russ Van Alstyne was standing beside his big red pickup in the parking lot.

Staring at her.

She swallowed. Hugged her paper sack closer to her chest. Her first thought was,
Was he always that tall
? Her second thought was,
He’s lost weight
. He was in his semi off-duty uniform, tan MKPD blouse tucked into a pair of jeans that had seen better days, an official windbreaker balancing his salt-stained hunting boots.

Then she realized where he was. Her eyes widened. His did, too.

“What are you doing at a liquor store?” she asked.

“What are you doing in uniform?” he said simultaneously.

They both paused. His dismay—at getting caught?—was plain on his face. “Are you drinking again?” she said. Her clashing emotions—concern, not wanting to be concerned—made her voice harsher than she intended.

He blinked. Frowned. “What?”

She waved a hand at Napoli’s plate glass windows, advertising specials on Dewar’s, Bombay gin, and all Australian wines. “What are you doing at the liquor store?” She took a step closer, not wanting to shame him by shouting his problem to any shoppers within earshot. “Please don’t tell me you’ve started drinking again.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them. When he spoke, his voice was tight with control. “I am not drinking again. I’m here to get Napoli’s latest bad check report.”

Her mouth formed a silent O.

“Now, would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in BDUs?”

She shifted one shoulder so he could read her New York State Guard patch. His hand came up and touched his collar, where, like her, insignia told the world his rank. “Where’s your chaplain’s cross?”

She mirrored his movement, touching her captain’s bars. “I’m not in the chaplaincy. I’m in the 142nd Aviation Battalion. Combat support.”

“You’re what?” He crossed to her in three sharp strides. “You’re in combat support? Are you insane? There’s a goddamn war on! Who the hell volunteers for front-line duty with a war on?”

She looked up at him. “I don’t know. You, maybe?”

He hissed through his teeth. The secret he might have taken to his grave, if he hadn’t shared it with her. Suddenly, she felt ashamed, as if she had used a cannon to counter a flyswatter. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I haven’t told. I wouldn’t ever tell.” That, contrary to what everyone else believed, Russ Van Alstyne had not been drafted to serve in the Vietnam War. He had enlisted—volunteered.

“Christ, I know that. You think I worry about that?” He shook his head. “At least I had an excuse. I was eighteen and dumb and desperate to get out of town. What possible reason could
you
have?”

She shifted the paper sack on her hip. “The bishop and I had several lengthy conversations after… after…” She was searching for a word to pretty up what she had done. She shouldn’t do that. She
wouldn’t
do that. “After I killed Aaron MacEntyre.”

“That was self-defense, not killing. You saved our lives in that barn. His punk-ass friend’s, too.”

“I resigned my cure, but, strangely enough, he didn’t accept it.”

“You what?”

She ignored his interruption. “Ultimately, the bishop didn’t think what I had… done… was the problem. He thought it was a symptom. Of me not knowing if I was a priest who used to be an army officer, or an army officer who happened to be a priest. He suggested”—she looked up at him, her mouth twisting—“he
strongly
suggested the National Guard as a solution.” She shrugged. “So I joined up. At the end of January.” She paused. “You hadn’t heard?”

“No, I hadn’t heard. Your name hasn’t come up.…” His blue eyes unfocused. She could see the lightbulb come on. “No one talks about you anymore.” She wasn’t sure if he knew he was speaking aloud. “No one ever talks about you to me.”

Another brilliant piece of deduction by the head of the Millers Kill Police Department. Idiot. She dug her fingers into the paper sack to keep from smacking the surprise off his face. A Pontiac pulled in the lot, parking beside her Subaru. Automatically, they each stepped back. Away from each other.

His gaze sharpened again. “Your bishop pushed you into recommissioning. Knowing you might well be deployed.”

“I wasn’t pushed. I had my own—”

His snort blew away her rationalization. “Because you took out Aaron MacEntyre.”

“Because I have a record of—”

“He was going to gut-shoot me. He was ready to do it.”

Clare compressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t want to stroll down that particular memory lane. Then she realized where he was going. “No,” she said.

“Because of me.”

“No.” She was louder this time. The older gentleman getting out of the Pontiac paused and looked at them nervously. Was the chief of police about to haul some belligerent soldier away?

“We are not having this conversation.” She turned toward her car. Russ caught at her sleeve, and at that moment, her phone began playing “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” in her pants pocket. Proof, if ever she needed it, that there was a merciful God.

“Yes, we are,” he said.

She fished out the phone and opened it. “Hello?” She twisted, more firmly this time, breaking his hold on her.

“Clare? This is Sister Lucia. Lucia Pirone.” The sister’s voice was thready. Clare backed toward her Subaru, keeping her eyes on Russ. He took a step toward her. Then
his
phone started ringing.

“Lucia? What is it? I’m sorry, I can hardly hear you.” She bumped up against the car and set her sack on the hood. Russ took another step toward her. She pointed at his jacket pocket.
Your phone
, she mouthed.

“The hell with my phone,” he said.

“There’s been an accident,” Sister Lucia said. “My van—”

“An accident?” Clare jabbed her finger at Russ again, then made a face. “Are you okay?”

He opened his jacket and retrieved his phone. Checked the caller ID. Frowned. He retreated to his own vehicle to answer it.

“No, actually, I don’t think I am.” Clare realized the weakness in the nun’s voice had less to do with signal strength than with injury.