One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Reverend.”

  Finally, she sighed. “I’ll see you around.” She shut the door. Limping into the soup kitchen, she was surrounded by concerned parishioners, all of whom backed away when they saw her bloody clothing and her dirt-and-tea-spattered hair. Velma Drassler looked her up and down, shaking her head. “We’ve got our rector back,” she said, in a different tone than before.

  The meal service was almost over. The other volunteers were washing and reshelving and sweeping and mopping, and Clare insisted, despite being urged to go home, on closing. She retrieved a bottle of blackberry brandy from the depths of a pantry shelf and self-medicated until she could ignore the pain in her shoulder and ankle. Then she limped to clean the bathroom.

  Squirting and wiping the tile with as much energy as she could muster, trying not to look at herself in the mirror, she realized Eric McCrea had never once looked at her before she had screamed his name. She had been back far enough to have a clear view: as he drove onto the scene, as he exited the car, as he kicked and stomped Tally McNabb. You look like someone’s knifed and rolled you, he had said. What was I supposed to think?

  He hadn’t seen her, though, hadn’t seen her blood or bruises or limp, not until after he had—

  She closed her eyes and bent over the sink. Ammonia and pine stung her nose. What am I supposed to do now? she thought. What am I supposed to do now?

  * * *

  Russ caught up with her on her way home. Literally. She had locked up the soup kitchen and, with no one to witness her weakness, painfully climbed behind the wheel of her ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee. It was a high-mileage, oil-leaking beater, but she hadn’t gotten any insurance money after she’d wrecked her last car, and this was what she could afford. Garaging it for a year and a half hadn’t improved its performance any.

  She was coasting down Depot Street, gritting her teeth every time she had to accelerate, when the cruiser swung in behind her. Its lights came on. She sighed, signaled, and rolled to the curb. Russ got out. She cranked the window down as he strode toward her. She looked up into his face, set in grim lines. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” His eyes were hot and hard. “You didn’t know who that woman was. For all you knew, she could’ve had a gun. She could’ve been mentally ill. She could’ve—” He banged his fist against the edge of her door, making her jump in her seat. “God, Clare.” He shook his head. “Lean forward.”

  “Why?”

  “Eric said you scraped up your back.”

  “It’s not that bad.” She dropped her head against the edge of the steering wheel, too tired and achy to argue.

  He sucked in a breath. “Oh, darlin’.” He glanced at his unit. “Can you drive?”

  “Of course I can drive. I was driving home when you stopped me. Probably would have been there by now.” Lord, she sounded like a five-year-old who’d missed her nap.

  He gave her a look. “You were straddling the centerline, going ten miles below the speed limit.”

  “Oh.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Eric gave you the whole report, did he?”

  “Just tell me,” he said patiently.

  “It hurts,” she admitted.

  “Okay. I’m going off duty. I’m going to follow you back to the rectory. If it gets too hard to use the accelerator, pull over and I’ll drive you the rest of the way home.”

  “Russ…”

  “Clare…”

  She threw in the towel. Agreed to his terms. Driving home, every square inch of her body either stinging, aching, or throbbing, she had a sudden image of Linda Van Alstyne. Pretty, petite, and picture-perfect. She was quite sure Russ’s late wife had never in her life rolled through garbage. The thought made her feel even worse. Or it might have been the sprain. Pulling into the rectory drive, she stumbled out of the Jeep to discover that her ankle, swollen and purpling, now resembled an overripe eggplant.

  “Stay there.” Russ thunked his car door closed, crossed her drive in three steps, and scooped her up in his arms.

  “I do not need to be carried into my own house.”

  He huffed. “Anybody ever tell you you’re too damn independent for your own good?” He trudged up the steps to her kitchen door. “Unlocked?”

  She still had her keys in her hand. She angled toward the door and unlatched it.

  “I’m impressed.” He lugged her into the kitchen, kicking the door closed behind him. “Didn’t think you knew how to lock doors.” He glanced at her ancient refrigerator, wheezing in the corner. “That ankle needs ice.”

  “I have a wrap in the freezer, but what I really want is a shower.” Her hair was stiff with sweet tea, and her skin was layered in sweat and alley dirt.

  Russ sniffed at her. “Good idea.”

  “Oh, my hero. You can just let me on down now.”

  Instead, he tightened his grip and backed through the kitchen’s swinging doors into the living room.

  “Russ, I mean it. You’ll give yourself a hernia.”

  “You kidding? You’re skin and bones. Didn’t they feed you in Iraq?” He paused, panting, at the foot of her stairs, then carted her up to the second floor. He staggered into her bedroom and dropped her on the bed, collapsing beside her. He groaned.

  “Was that your version of sweeping me off my feet?”

  “Trying…” He sucked in air. “… romantic.”

  “Heart attacks aren’t romantic.” She curled into a sitting position, then got up on one foot, bracing herself against her bedside table.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Going to the shower.”

  He rolled over. Climbed to his feet.

  “You’re not trying the Rhett Butler thing again.”

  “Just put your arm around my neck, will you? Ungrateful woman.”

  She followed orders and leaned against him as they crossed the hall landing. “This reminds me of when you broke your leg,” she said. “Remember how you hung on to me to make it to your truck?”

  “I promise you, that little episode remains fresh in my memory. I still have two pins in my ankle.”

  “Or the time I nearly froze my feet off up on Mount Tenant? You carried me into the rectory then, too.”

  He flipped down the lid and set her on the toilet. “My life’s been filled with exciting incidents since I met you. I’m hoping our future together will be dull.” He leaned down and looked into her eyes. “Very dull.”

  “I’ll try to be more boring.”

  “Good.” He turned on the shower to get the water running hot. “Don’t slip on the tile and knock yourself unconscious while I’m downstairs.”

  “Were you always this bossy, or did I forget while I was deployed?”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet, darlin’.”

  She made a rude noise, but the truth was, she didn’t feel up to any activity more strenuous than sitting upright. Her momentum had drained away, leaving her shaky and in pain. She watched his back disappearing down the stairs, felt her ankle throbbing, breathed in the first tendrils of steam from the shower. Her glance fell on her toiletries kit, balanced on the back of the sink. Of course. She grabbed it, unzipped it, pulled out the plastic bag of sleeping pills, the bag of antibiotics, the bag of amphetamines. Found the one she was looking for. Percocet. Prescription painkillers. She pinched one out of the plastic bag and, leaning over the sink, ran some water into the cup she kept next to her toothbrush. She tossed the pill into her throat, chased it down with the water, and, as she heard Russ’s step on the stair, stuffed all the bags back into her kit. She was zipping it up when he pushed through the half-open door.

  “What have you got there?”

  “I had one leftover pain pill,” she lied, wondering in the same instant why she was doing so. It wasn’t like what she had was illegal. She’d been given those medications by a flight surgeon. Everybody got them. She pictured showing them to Russ. Pictured him saying, C
lare, what the hell do you need speed and downers for? Pictured herself surrendering the pills. Her hand closed over the top of her kit. She slid it back into place on the sink. “Help me into the shower?”

  After she had washed the stink and the sugar off, Russ wrapped the ice pack around her ankle and bandaged her shoulder. He whistled at the damage the pavement and garbage had wrought. “This looks nasty, darlin’. Let me take you to the hospital. They can give you something to make sure you don’t get an infection.”

  “No hospital.”

  “Clare.” He breathed through his nose. “Seeking medical attention doesn’t mean you’ll be diagnosed with cancer.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Hmm?” Her sister, Grace, had gone to her doctor one summer day with a stomachache. Four months later she was dead. Colorectal cancer. Virulent. Fast moving.

  “I’m not afraid to get treatment,” she lied. “I just don’t want to go now. I promise I’ll get it seen to if I show any signs of infection.” That would be easy. The antibiotics she had brought back with her would kill any bug up to and including flesh-eating bacteria.

  He growled but helped her back into her bedroom. The pill was kicking in, and she felt more relaxed and carefree than she had at any time since she’d gotten home. Well. Any time when she wasn’t having sex. She caught Russ’s hands and fell backward onto the bed. He leaned over her, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor. “Take off your clothes,” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s mighty ambitious for someone as banged up as you are.”

  “Army tough.”

  He kissed her lightly. “Sorry, darlin’.” He stood up. “I just started my shift. Besides, my unit is smack-dab in the middle of your driveway. Might as well hang a sign out.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re not in the army now, you’re in Millers Kill. If someone isn’t over at the Kreemy Kakes diner right now talking about how the police chief’s squad car is parked at Reverend Fergusson’s place, I’ll eat my shorts.”

  She wobbled into a seated position. “We’re two single adults over the age of consent.” She eyed him. “Well over.”

  “Ha. Remember all that stuff about setting an example for your congregation? Sex should be reserved for marriage? Practicing celibacy?”

  “That was a hell of a lot easier before we started doing it.”

  He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He pulled the covers back and rolled her into bed. “Get some rest. I’ll see if I can stash my truck somewhere and sneak over tonight.”

  “Hypocrite,” she said into her pillow.

  “It’s called discretion.” He tugged the covers over her. Smoothed her hair away from her face. “I don’t want you to get hurt, love. Not by crazy women at the soup kitchen, not by gossip.”

  “Tally.” She tried to keep her thoughts from floating into the smooth cotton darkness. “What did she say?”

  Russ made a noise. “Said she was fine. She didn’t feel threatened by either her husband or Chief Nichols.”

  “You believe her?”

  “I don’t have any reason not to, other than her going to ground for a couple days. She said she just wanted some time alone to think. I had Knox take her home, to get a feel for the situation.”

  Her eyes had closed while he was speaking. She felt his lips on her forehead. “Later.”

  There was something else … she heard his footsteps headed for the hall. “Eric,” she said.

  “I’ll thank him for you.”

  No. That’s not it. Then the narcotic took her and she was gone.

  MONDAY, JULY 4

  There had been times in the last two years when Hadley Knox had been overwhelmed by the differences between her old life in Los Angeles and her new one in Millers Kill. Controlling traffic for the Independence Day Parade was turning out to be one of them.

  She had taken her kids to a parade once in L.A., a spectacle of Disneyland-quality floats, the Golden Bears marching band, and professional dancers twirling flaming batons. In Millers Kill, half the town was marching. DAR ladies in nineteenth-century dresses and VFW men carrying cap lock rifles. A group from St. Alban’s toting their THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU banner. The chief’s mother rode past on the Adirondack Conservancy’s Green Future float, and her own kids pedaled by on bikes they had spent all Saturday decorating.

  There was the middle school band, and the antique and modern fire trucks, and finally the MKPD cruiser marking the end of the parade. Flynn was driving, one arm hanging out the window in a very nonregulation way, grinning and waving to the children lining the road.

  He so young, so ridiculously hopeful and helpful, almost like a kid himself. She flashed on the night they had spent together, his eyes dark, his voice hard, saying, Once and for all, I’m not a kid. Her saying, No. You’re not.

  God. She shook her head to clear it. She cleared traffic and drove toward the park, wedging her cruiser into a tow zone on Main.

  Wading into the crowd, she spotted the chief right off, his height a reliable beacon. He was walking beat along the grassy edge of the park, scanning from the street-side shops to the gazebo at the center of the green and back again. He stopped to greet someone, then caught sight of her and changed direction. “Knox. Hi. Talk to me.”

  “Everything quiet. Traffic is flowing.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “Did I, uh, miss anything?”

  “Our assemblyman donated a new flag.” He thumbed toward the flagpole. “Reverend Fergusson”—he looked like he was trying not to smile—“gave a nice invocation.” He thumbed toward the Gothic tower of St. Alban’s. “She’s at your church’s yard sale.”

  She stood on tiptoe. Between the lush green foliage of the park’s maples and the holiday crowd, she couldn’t see a thing. “How are we doing?”

  “The Presbyterians are beating you all to hell. They’ve got an Italian sausage stand.”

  “How’s Reverend Clare?”

  “Hurting.” The chief looked exasperated. “I told her she shouldn’t have come. She’s on crutches, for chrissakes. Borrowed from somebody in your congregation, of course, because God forbid she go see a doctor.”

  Hadley spotted Anne Vining-Ellis, one of the movers and shakers of St. Alban’s, crossing the road. Her youngest son trailed behind her, all pipe-cleaner legs and bangs in his eyes.

  “You should ask Dr. Anne to check her out.”

  “Check who out?” The doctor had gotten close enough to hear them.

  “Clare. I’m trying to get her to see someone about her ankle. Plus, the back of her shoulder looks awful, like it might be getting infected.”

  “I saw the crutches and the ACE bandage, but I didn’t know she had another injury. I’ll make sure to take a look before we go home.”

  “Thanks. I swear, she—” The chief stopped, took a breath, and gestured toward Hadley. “Do you know Officer Knox?”

  “Of course I do.” She smiled at Hadley. “We just ran into your kids over at the yard sale with your grandfather. Their bikes look amazing.”

  “Thanks. They actually did most of the decorating themselves.” Hadley nodded toward Dr. Anne’s boy. “Are you helping out at St. Alban’s?”

  “Not this time.” Dr. Anne threw an arm around her son. “Colin’s won the Civic Essay Award. He’s here to get the scholarship check from the mayor.”

  Colin Ellis, who had been looking at the crowd while the adults droned on, straightened and pointed. “Mom! It’s Dad and Will.” He grinned. “He decided to come after all. All right. Hey! Will!”

  Dr. Anne’s face froze, and suddenly Hadley could see her age around her eyes. Hadley followed the older woman’s gaze to see Mr. Ellis pushing a young man in a wheelchair.

  A legless young man in a wheelchair. Whoa. Her stomach squeezed.

  “Ah,” the chief said.

  The pair came to a stop in front of Dr. Anne. “You’ve met my husband, Chris.” The doctor’s voice was strange, like an imit
ation of herself. “And this is my son Will. Will, this is Chief Van Alstyne, Reverend Clare’s … friend.”

  The chief shook the kid’s hand. “I think Clare told me you had enlisted. What branch?”

  “Marines.”

  “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. Where were you serving?”

  “Anbar Province.”

  The chief nodded. “I’ve heard that’s a hot zone. Heavy casualties.”

  “I got out alive. I can’t complain.” Will’s face was clear and open, as if the fact that a third of his body was missing didn’t matter.

  The chief smiled a little. “A marine platoon saved my life once in Vietnam. I make it a habit to thank jarheads when I meet them. Thank you.”

  Will’s mouth crooked up. “What branch were you in, sir?”

  “Army.”

  Will smiled broadly. “Are you sure they only saved your life once?” The chief laughed.

  “Well. Goodness. We’d better get over to the gazebo.” Dr. Anne’s voice was bright and cheery. “We don’t want Mayor Cameron giving the check away to somebody else.” The Ellis men chorused good-bye, walking—and rolling—away.

  “God.” Hadley felt as if she had been holding her breath. “That’s tough. He’s so young.”

  “They always are. They’re always too goddamn young.” The squawk on the chief’s radio was a welcome distraction. He keyed his shoulder mike. “Van Alstyne here.”

  “Where’n the hell is here?” Static made Deputy Chief MacAuley’s voice crackle. “I been looking all over for you.”

  “I’m at the south end of the park, looking at the Rexall.”

  “I’m at the gazebo. Walk that way and I’ll meet you. MacAuley out.”

  Within moments, Hadley saw the deputy chief’s grizzled buzz cut bobbing toward them. “There you are,” he said, as he came into sight. “They want you up on the stand.”

  “So I can stand next to John Opperman and smile? Not a chance.”

  “Opperman?” Hadley looked at the wooden pavilion, its spindled railing and octagonal roof draped in red-white-and-blue bunting. “As in BWI Opperman, the biggest employer in the county?” She could see Mayor Cameron, standing with a well-dressed middle-aged man and a woman whose twin set and glasses-on-a-chain said teacher or librarian. There were also three soldiers in camo: a young woman in a black beret, an even younger-looking man whose head was shaved bald, and an older guy twisting a bucket hat.