Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “What we, kemosabe?”

  “You know, you shouldn’t keep saying that. I think it may be racist.”

  He held out his hand and made a beckoning motion. Spill it.

  “The thermostat’s turned down to fifty at the rectory, and the driveway is probably completely impassable at this point.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So is that what you want to come home to after a long, stressful drive through bad weather? After dark? Geoff Burns said he’d turn the heat back on and arrange to have us plowed out the day we were getting home. I’m going to ask him to do it this evening, before we get in.”

  Russ made a face. He wasn’t terribly fond of lawyers, and in Geoff Burns’s case it was an actual antipathy.

  “You don’t need to come all the way up to Cooper’s Corners for that.”

  She scooped her cell phone off the kitchen counter and slapped it into his hand. “Okay. You call Geoff and ask him to do it.”

  Russ looked at her phone as if it were a giant cockroach. Which was close to how he saw Geoffrey Burns. “Okay,” he finally said. “But you stay in the truck.”

  “All right.”

  “With the doors locked.”

  “Okay.”

  “If—and it’s a long shot—but if the little girl is there—”

  “We head straight for the nearest hospital.” She hugged him. “Come on, love. We’re burning daylight.”

  He looked over her head to where the windows showed their unchanging view of pelting snow and ice. “Such as it is,” he said.

  4.

  Lyle finally caught a break just before noon. The warrant to search Wendall Sullivan’s miserable rental house came through around nine, and he had spent a good chunk of the morning going through Sullivan’s room, examining each and every paper, leafing through the books, taking apart the bed, and searching the drawers inside and out. He had pulled the dresser and nightstand away from the wall to see if Sullivan had concealed something, anything, along their hidden surfaces. Nothing.

  He was digging into the pockets of the clothing hanging in the closet when he found it. An old peacoat with nothing in its pockets jingled when he slid it out of the way. Lyle shook it again. Another jingle. He traced the stitching of the pockets again, more carefully.

  There. A rip in the lining. Lyle pulled the coat off its hanger and fished his nonregulation Swiss Army knife out of his pants. He slid the tip of the knife in at one end of the coat and slashed the lining open. A shower of small change, paper clips, lint, and crumpled receipts fell to the floor. Lyle got down on his knees and started in on the receipts. McDonald’s. Dunkin’ Donuts. Gas. Gas. Bob’s Self Storage Units.

  He smoothed the small paper out, trying to read the details. It was dated last March. Two months after Sullivan had gotten out of Fishkill. One hundred twenty dollars charged to his card. No other details. No indication that it was a unit rental. Bob’s sold cardboard boxes and rented trucks and those pod things people used when they moved. Lyle trusted his nose, though, and right now it was telling him Sullivan hadn’t needed any U-Seal-It packing tape last March. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed a call.

  “This better be pretty goddamn important.” Eric McCrea’s voice was rusty with sleep.

  “Get your gear on,” Lyle said. “You’re coming in early today.”

  5.

  The church camp was empty. Russ searched the main building first, a deep-eaved shingle-sided structure that was basically one football-field-sized room with a kitchen in the middle and toilets on each end. He could see where a leak had indeed sprung; if it was Mikayla’s father who had fixed it, he tidied up well after himself, but the floorboards and wall were stained with a film of ice. Clare met him on the wide porch as he came out. “Can I call from here?” She thumbed back toward the truck. “I can’t hear myself think with the rain on the cab roof.”

  The snow and hail was thinning out, replaced with icy rain that pounded on every surface like a pellet-gun attack. “Sure,” he said. “It’s clear. Don’t touch anything, just in case.”

  “I won’t.” She went into the meetinghouse. Russ tightened his hood around his head and waded through the slop of slush and snow to search the individual cabins scattered among the thick pine trees framing the central building. They were small and spare, just empty bunk frames and hooks along the walls and a tiny water closet squeezed into one corner. They were empty, too, and, given the smell of damp and disuse, had been since last September. Russ stepped out of the last cabin, latched it tight, and turned just in time to hear a crack overhead. He slammed himself flat against the door. A thick, ice-encrusted pine branch crashed to the ground, so close he could feel the whiskery brush of needles as it fell.

  He looked up. The tree’s other branches yawed toward the ground, the weight of the accumulating ice spreading over every needle and twig. The stump left by the breaking branch stood out jagged and white against the near-black bark. Shit.

  He stomped back to the meeting hall, registering for the first time how his boots were breaking through a crust of ice before sinking into the slurry below.

  He kicked the rest of the snow off against the meetinghouse porch and went inside. “Clare—”

  She held up one finger. “No,” she said to her cell phone. “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned away from him. “No, thanks, Karen, I don’t need to be represented yet. And if I do, it’ll be under canon law, not civil.” She was standing in the middle of the empty space, not touching anything, like she promised. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. And thank Geoff for us again.” There was a pause. “Yeah, I figure”—she checked her watch—“about four hours from now.” She turned back around and smiled tentatively at Russ. “I will. Bye.” She folded her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “We’re all set. Geoff is going over to turn up the heat, and the man who plows for the Burnses will clear out our driveway.”

  “I don’t mean that. What’s this about a decision and needing a lawyer?”

  She looked up at the old-fashioned tin light fixture overhead. “Russ—”

  “Clare…”

  She threw up her hands. “I was looking for the right time to tell you.”

  “Tell me what, exactly?” His voice was harsh. He tried to bring it under control. “Are you in trouble? Over a church thing? That’s what canon law is, right? Church law?”

  She nodded. “The bishop—” She sighed. “The bishop’s given me an ultimatum. Either I resign my cure quietly, or I face a possible disciplinary hearing for sexual misconduct.”

  “Sexual—!” He stared. Then he got it. Her bishop had put two and two together and gotten three, just like everyone else. “Because you’re pregnant.”

  “Because I was pregnant before we got married. Yes.”

  “But—” He tried to shove his hand into his hair but hit the furred edge of his hood instead. He yanked it down. “You talked to him. Right? I thought you had to confess and repent.” Goddamn ridiculous church rules. This was why he wasn’t religious.

  “I confessed.” Her lips curved up. “I didn’t repent. I don’t think what we did was a sin. Was it conduct unbefitting a priest?” She shrugged. “That’s the question.”

  Russ sat down heavily on one of the long benches lining the walls. “Sounds like the damn army.”

  Her boots thunked across the floor as she walked toward him. “Actually, that’s what the Rules are based on. The Uniform Code of Military Justice.” She sat down next to him.

  “When did you find this out?”

  “Friday.” She gave him a regretful half-smile. “I should have told you right away, but there was Amber in the car, and then all the hustle of moving into the cabin, and then I just wanted to enjoy some time alone with you that wasn’t…”

  “I know.” He took her hand. “So. What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” She tilted her head back until it hit
the pine-sheathed wall. “If I’m tried and convicted, it’ll be a huge black mark on my record. I may never get another parish again.”

  He wanted to say, You see? This baby is screwing up everything. He wasn’t that much of an idiot, however. And it sure as hell wouldn’t make Clare feel any better.

  “If I resign, I’ll never have another parish in the Diocese of Albany again. I could possibly look elsewhere, but you’re committed to staying in Millers Kill as long as the police department needs you.”

  “Uh. About that.” He shifted on the hard wooden bench. “Remember when you asked me what I was talking to Lyle about?”

  “Yes…” Her voice was wary.

  “He and I barged in on an aldermen’s meeting on Friday. One we hadn’t been invited to. They’re considering shutting down the department. To save money.”

  “What?” She sat bolt upright.

  “Doing away with the whole thing. Having the state police cover the three towns instead.”

  “Good God! That’s a terrible idea! Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  He smiled a little. “I just wanted to enjoy some time alone with you that wasn’t…”

  She sagged back against the wall. “Good Lord. We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we? If it falls out for the worst, we’ll have no jobs, no home, and a baby on the way.”

  “Look on the bright side. At least there won’t be anything keeping us from moving to a better climate.”

  She sat up again, twisting toward him. “Russ, you’ve got to fight this. I mean, besides it being the wrong thing for Millers Kill, think of everyone in the department without their jobs. Without health insurance. Harlene. Hadley Knox. All the part-timers who make ends meet with their traffic work. It would be a disaster for them.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  They sat side by side for a moment in the cold, empty room. Through the slatted shutters protecting the windows, Russ could see it growing dimmer outside. “C’mon,” he finally said, standing up and pulling Clare with him. “We’ve got to get back to the cabin and start packing before we lose the light completely.”

  “Some honeymoon.” She pulled her hood up. “We might as well have booked a cabin on the Titanic.”

  He turned off the lights as she opened the door. The outdoors was a glistening rectangle of gray. “Could be worse,” he said. “It could always be worse.”

  6.

  In the past two years, Hadley had never once wanted to keep working when her shift was over, so arguing with Lyle MacAuley over the radio was a novelty.

  “You two are already in overtime. One more hour and you go to triple time, and we can. Not. Afford that. Over.”

  She keyed the mic. “Look, we still haven’t hit everyone on the smurfing list. Somebody’s got to know something about Annie Johnson’s location. Or the meth house. Over.”

  “A team from the FBI is going in to talk to this LaMar guy.”

  The radio squealed as Hadley signaled at the same time. “The Feds? What are they doing in this case?”

  There was a pause. Either MacAuley was waiting for her to signal “over,” or he was thinking up new ways to rip a strip off her. Finally the radio crackled on again. “The Feds are involved because racketeering is a federal crime. We don’t have all the pieces yet, but it looks like LaMar is into something a lot bigger than cooking up ice in Washington County. He’s being held in federal custody without bail at Fishkill.” His voice took on a solicitous tone, as if he were working customer service. “As to the rest of your concerns, Officer Knox, Eric can complete the interviews after he’s done helping me, and the chief’s coming home this evening. Does that make you feel better, Officer Knox? Do you approve of those arrangements? Over.”

  She looked at Flynn. He was struggling not to smile. She keyed the mic. “Yes, sir. Over.”

  “Good! Now let me remind you that running the department is above your pay grade, Officer Knox! Log out and go home. Do not pass Go and do not collect two hundred dollars. MacAuley out.”

  She slammed the mic into its holder. It fell out. She slammed it in again and held it there. “Goddammit.”

  Flynn slanted a sideways glance at her. “You’re pretty invested in this, huh?”

  “Don’t you think you should pay attention to your driving? And how come you’re always the one behind the wheel, anyway?” Which was stupid, because she didn’t want to drive in this slop.

  Flynn being Flynn, he didn’t take offense. “I want to find her, too.”

  Hadley’s temper deflated. “God. She’s only eight years old. I keep picturing Genny in the same situation. Taken away someplace. Scared. Sick.”

  “If LaMar’s being held without bail, he’s got some powerful motivation for cooperating. And if he’s really the one running the operation, chances are good he’ll know where we can find Annie Johnson.”

  “If the Feds cut him a deal. If Annie really works for him. If she’s the one who took Mikayla.”

  Ahead of them, a Camry took the right onto Veterans Bridge too fast and slid across both lanes. Flynn slowed and reached for the light-bar switch, but the little car spun up a shower of slush from its rear wheels and righted itself. Flynn relaxed. “I’m glad we’re not on call this afternoon.” He downshifted and held the cruiser steady at thirty. “It’s gonna be nothing but fender benders and off-road skids. People ought to stay off the roads if they don’t have a heavy vehicle with four-wheel drive.”

  “Some us aren’t that lucky, Flynn.” Hadley slouched in her seat. “With my car, I figure I’m doing well if I can get out of the station’s parking lot.” She owned a twelve-year-old Escort with enough miles on it to have gone to the moon and back.

  “Why don’t you let me drop you at your house? We’re going right past Burgoyne.”

  She waved her hand. “That would be great, but how do I get to work tomorrow?” She thought about the lousy roads. Thought about the likelihood of her getting stuck between the station and her house. “Actually, you know, that would be great. Granddad can drop me at the station tomorrow. He’s got this ancient Pontiac that weighs as much as a tank.”

  He hummed in agreement. It wasn’t until he was turning into Burgoyne Street that she realized Flynn had offered to help her out and she hadn’t turned him down flat for fear things might get personal. It was working with him the past three days, she supposed. Somewhere between getting caught rescuing a doll and running down fake licenses, she had gotten … comfortable with him again. This morning, he had gone into the Stewart’s while she tanked up the cruiser, and she hadn’t thought twice about accepting the coffee he bought her. It was nice.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” he said.

  Hadley sat upright again. Dylan’s rental car sat in Granddad’s driveway. “Oh, for chrissakes,” she said. Flynn pulled the squad car as close to the curb as he could get, given the lousy plow job the road crew had done. As she slid open the plexi divider to get the parka she’d tossed in the backseat, Flynn said, “Hadley…” His voice was alert. Tense.

  She dropped back into her seat. The front door was open, and Dylan was shepherding the kids onto the porch. They were carrying their sleepover backpacks.

  “Oh, no. Oh, that son of a bitch—” She was out of the cruiser and across the lawn in five strides, heedless of the wet snow spattering her uniform blouse and soaking the bottom of her trousers. “Dylan! What do you think you’re doing?” She pounded up the porch steps. “Kids, get inside.” Granddad was standing in the doorway, looking miserable. She shot him a glare before turning to her ex. “Where do you think you’re taking my children?”

  Dylan gave her a patronizing smile. “We’re going to have a sleepover at my hotel.” He beckoned to Hudson and Geneva, who were looking at their father, then their mother, then back to their father.

  “Oh, no, you’re not.”

  “The Weather Channel was saying there’s a major storm front stalling out right over upstate New York. Snow and freezing rain. Lots of p
ower outages expected.” He squatted down, bracing his hands on his knees. “What do you guys think? Do you want to be here when the power goes out? Or at my hotel? They’ve got generators to keep things going no matter how bad it gets outside. Plus, they have a pool…”

  Hadley felt the situation sliding away from her, like that Camry losing control on the bridge. “Tomorrow’s a school day. No sleepovers on a school night.”

  “But Mom, it’s probably gonna be a snow day!” Hudson complained. “Dad’s got cable TV at his hotel! And you can play video games right on it!”

  “Tell you what, Honey—if the weather’s good enough, I can bring them back tonight. Surely you can spare them for the rest of the day.”

  “No, I can’t!” A gust of wind sliced through her uniform blouse, and she shivered convulsively.

  Dylan laid his hand on Hudson’s shoulder. He kept his smile pleasant, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Why not? What could be more important than letting Hudson and Genny spend time with their dad?”

  “Actually, they’re coming to my folks’ house for Sunday dinner.” Flynn walked up the porch steps and handed Hadley her parka. “You ought to get changed, if we don’t want to be late.”

  “Yes,” she said, grasping the lifeline he’d thrown her. “Everybody inside so Mom can get changed.” She took Genny’s hand and dragged her into the house, trusting Flynn would have her back.

  And he did, because a second later, Hudson and Dylan followed her, with Flynn bringing up the rear. Granddad slammed the door shut, and there they all were, a knot of surprise and suspicion and relief all clustered together in the living room.

  “I’ll be right back.” Hadley looked into Flynn’s eyes, hoping he could read her message. Don’t let him leave with the kids. Flynn nodded, a motion so small she would have missed it if she hadn’t been so intent on his face. She pounded up the stairs and into her bedroom, leaving her door wide open so she wouldn’t miss what was going on downstairs.

  “Who are you?” Dylan asked.