When the techs had wrung the rooms dry, the agent in charge announced they were taking Mr. Opperman to Albany to process him. The lawyers stopped their arguments and requests and comments, conferred in whispers with the CEO for half a minute, then disappeared through the suite’s door.
“Rats leaving the ship?” Russ said under his breath.
The agent snorted. “I wish. By the time we get off the Northway, there’ll be six of ’em waiting for us.” She glanced up at Russ. “Would you like to help us escort the detainee to our transport, Chief?”
Russ guessed that was his reward for not stroking out during the run upstairs. “Yes, ma’am, I would.”
All traces of Opperman’s earlier rage and terror were gone. Walking to the elevator between Russ and the agent in charge, two FBI guys looming behind him, the CEO might have been strolling with some low-mid-management employees. He made the handcuffs look like a fashion accessory.
The three FBI agents packed the rear of the elevator, leaving Russ and Opperman staring at their own hazy reflections in the bronze doors. Opperman smiled at himself. “I’ll be back here by tonight, you know.”
Russ pasted a similar pleasant expression on his face. “I don’t think so.”
Opperman’s smile thinned. “Do you seriously think you’ve taken me down, Chief Van Alstyne?”
Russ shook his head. “No. I think Ellen Bain and Tally McNabb took you down. I’m just here to witness it.”
“Two tragic deaths, which have nothing to do with me.”
“The CID’s arrested Arlene Seelye, and Wyler McNabb is in army custody right now. I don’t know about her, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s going to go down with the ship. My guess is, he’s going to talk like a little girl at a slumber party.”
“A disgruntled employee.” Opperman’s expression was bland. “I have access to the top legal talent in the country. They’re going to tie these spurious charges into so many knots, you’ll be retired to a trailer park in Gainesville before you see me inside a courtroom.” The elevator chimed and the doors opened. They stepped out into the lobby. “You’re a little man in a little town who has to go hat in hand before your aldermen to beg for the bullets in your gun and the paper in your copier. You have no idea of the power money can bring to bear, Chief Van Alstyne. None at all.”
* * *
He had to take a walk around the hotel to clear his head after depositing Opperman in the FBI’s car. When he finally went back inside, he found Tony conferring with Amy Nguyen, the Washington County ADA, and a federal prosecutor up from the capital. They fell silent as he approached. The Fed excused himself to rejoin his colleagues.
“What?” Russ glanced from face to face. Tony was grim. Amy looked apologetic. “Okay, what’s the bad news?”
“John Opperman’s lawyers have already opened negotiations,” Tony said.
“Christ. That’s a land speed record.”
Amy pursed her lips. “They want the state to drop the conspiracy to murder charge in exchange for full cooperation on the federal fraud and theft investigation.”
“What?”
“It’s a complicated case,” Tony began.
“So what? It’s theft. Murder beats theft.”
“Conspiracy to murder.” Amy massaged her temples. “Difficult to prove.”
“Meanwhile, the Feds want to round up anyone involved with the fraud and hang them up as a bad example.” Tony spread his hands. “Don’t look at me like that. Do you have any idea how much money just disappears every damn day in Iraq and Afghanistan? If we can put a few heads on pikes to scare the other carrion-eaters away, we will.”
“What’s a head on a pike, Tony? Five years in a white-collar federal pen?” Russ had to turn away for a moment to control his temper.
“Russ.” Amy Nguyen touched his sleeve. “Wyler McNabb will be punished.”
“Jesus Christ. I can’t believe this. Opperman has one woman killed and drives another one to suicide, and you guys want to take his deposition and send him to a goddamn country club.”
“It’s not what I want.” Amy folded her arms and looked away. “It’s what I can get.”
“We have to work within the system, Chief.” Tony shook his head. “You know how it is.”
Russ pictured Tally McNabb floating sightlessly in her pool. He pictured Olivia Bain, pale and stricken. “Yeah,” he said. “I know how it is.”
* * *
He knew Clare would be at St. Alban’s, and he thought he might be interrupting something, but he didn’t care. He needed to wrap his arms around her and smell her hair and remind himself that there were good things in the world. The peace of God, she said in the service. God didn’t do it for him, but Clare could.
He was surprised to find her walking out of her office, car keys and coat in hand. He grabbed her and hugged her and she worked her arms free and hugged him fiercely back.
“You heard.” Her voice was full of relief and sorrow. She pushed away to look him in the face. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Come with you where? Heard what?”
She blinked. “I thought they must have called you first. I mean, they got in touch with me because they need a minister and I’m the only one they know.” She shifted her coat to her other arm and tugged him toward the door. “That’s what the notification team suggests, you know. Before they leave. They want you to get a friend or a family member and your pastor.”
“Clare, what are you talking about? Who called you?”
“The Stoners.” Her face, above her white collar, was somber. “They’ve just received word their son Ethan was killed in Afghanistan.”
IN THAT KINGDOM WHERE THERE IS NO DEATH, NEITHER SORROW NOR CRYING, BUT THE FULLNESS OF JOY WITH ALL THY SAINTS …
—The Burial of the Dead: Rite One, The Book of Common Prayer
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 1
“He who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new life to our mortal bodies through his indwelling Spirit. My heart, therefore, is glad, and my spirit rejoices; my body also shall rest in hope. You will show me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy, and in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” The Reverend Clare Fergusson closed her prayer book and let the quiet spread. The sun, warm and bright as butterscotch, slanted across the graveyard, splashing over the markers of Ethan Stoner’s forebears. Overhead, a V of geese split the flawless blue sky, silent, except for the thrumming of their wings. It seemed right, Sarah Dowling thought, for a country boy.
Fergusson nodded to the honor guard. The four marines fell in to their places. Two stepped to the ends of the coffin and grasped the flag. A tug, a snap, and they folded it, tightly, precisely, until it was transformed into a perfect triangle of blue field and white stars.
They turned on their heels. One step, two. They drew up and saluted. The white gloves of the guard flashed in the sunlight. One marine held the flag out.
Christy Stoner looked at her mother-in-law, standing behind her. Mindy Stoner placed her hands on the young woman’s shoulders and said something in her ear. Christy accepted the flag. “Thank you,” she said to the marine. She held it by its edges, looking, in her black dress and heels, like a little girl dressed up as Jackie Kennedy.
The honor guard fell back ten paces and presented arms. When the first volley rang out, the baby, in the care of some family friend, began to wail. The widow handed the flag to her mother-in-law and reached for her boy, clutching him close, kissing and soothing him.
Ethan Stoner’s mother watched them, hugging the lifeless flag to her chest, and in her face was a grief so profound Sarah knew she would never reach the bottom of it.
Taps was played by a black-suited high schooler. Too many funerals, Fergusson had told Sarah. Not enough military musicians to go around. When the salute ended, Fergusson doubled over, as if she were bowing to the casket. Sarah was shocked to see her rise with a fistful of dirt. She held it over the now-bare coffin. “In sure
and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to almighty God our brother Ethan.” She opened her hand, and the dirt spattered across the satin wood. The bald assertion of what was going to happen to the dead man’s body was a jarring contrast to the promises of life. Fergusson said something Sarah couldn’t make out, and several of the family came forward and did the same thing, stooping and then scattering earth on the casket. “Earth to earth,” Fergusson said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Sarah turned her head to see how the other mourners were taking the primitive ritual. She spotted Trip Stillman and a couple she recognized as the Ellises standing beside Will. The doctor’s dress greens and Will’s marine uniform stood out against the black and navy all around them.
“The Lord bless him and keep him; the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him,” Fergusson said.
Another flash of green caught Sarah’s eye, and she watched as Eric McCrea made his way through the crowd toward the rest of the group. So. She had been right to come. When she had heard about the young marine’s funeral—it was all they were talking about at the IGA—she knew, without a doubt, that her group would be here today. She thought of Tally McNabb, who lay just a hundred yards away, her grave as raw as the wound on Sarah’s conscience.
All of her group would be here today.
“The Lord lift up his countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen.”
The mourners murmured their amens.
Fergusson dismissed them, and the crowd began to shift and split, some people departing for the line of cars parked on the access road, others huddling together to talk. The older Ellises said something to Will and headed over to where the Stoners were surrounded by well-wishers.
Sarah walked over to join her people. “So. Tell me how each of you knows Ethan Stoner.”
“Broken ulna in seventh grade,” Stillman said. “Plus I’ve set Wayne Stoner’s metatarsals twice after his cows stepped on his foot.”
“He was in my brother’s class in high school,” Will said.
“I picked him up a couple times for disorderly behavior.” Eric looked back at their stares. “What? He was a wild kid before he straightened out and joined the marines. He did a year’s community service for pulling a shotgun on the chief.”
Eric thumbed toward the Stoners. Chief Van Alstyne was standing close by the bereaved father, one hand gripping his shoulder tightly. Stoner nodded at whatever it was the chief said; then they embraced in the half-hug of two fifty-something straight men uncomfortable with expressing emotion.
“Did someone forget to tell me we were having a meeting?” Clare Fergusson joined them, looking like an extra in a historical movie in her long white robe and ankle-length black cape.
Stillman nodded to her. “That was a beautiful service, Reverend.”
“You usually call me Clare now.”
“I do?” He frowned. “Thanks.”
Sarah looked at the priest. “How are you doing, Clare?”
“Okay. I’ve got an appointment with an addiction counselor tomorrow. My husband”—at the words, her face lit up and she smiled an involuntary smile—“is helping me keep things under control.”
“Enjoying marriage, are you?”
“It’s wonderful.” Fergusson glanced over her shoulder to watch her husband walk toward her. “I recommend it for everyone.”
McCrea twisted the ring on his finger. “Any progress on that front?” Sarah asked him quietly.
“No.”
He didn’t say another word. Sarah couldn’t tell if that was because things with his wife felt hopeless or because his boss was within earshot.
“Hi,” Chief Van Alstyne said. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Fergusson. In his fitted dress jacket with its golden braids, he looked like a palace guardsman keeping watch over a particularly somber princess. “Hell of a thing.”
Everyone nodded.
“I talked to him before he left for California for sniper training. Ethan, I mean. Told him to come back safe to us.” He smiled a little. “Back in the day, Chief Liddle said the same thing to me, before I shipped out to Vietnam. And here I was, a lifetime later, wearing Chief Liddle’s badge, and I remember wondering if Ethan—” His voice cracked. Fergusson took his hand and laced her fingers through his.
What a waste. Sarah could hear it in the air between them. Of course, no one could say it. The war dead are heroes. Their lives can’t be counted as wasted.
“So,” she said. “How do you all feel now? Here, today?”
They all looked toward the family in black. The girl and her orphaned baby. The mother’s ravaged face. The coffin, waiting in front of the delicately concealed mound of soil. There was a long silence.
Finally, Will Ellis said, “Lucky.”
Clare Fergusson laid her hand on his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “Lucky.”
* * *
The answering machine was blinking when they got home to the rectory. Clare cast a glance at it on her way through the kitchen. “Oh, God. That better not be a pastoral emergency. I don’t think I’ve got anything left to give today.” She headed for the stairs. “I’m going to change out of my clericals. Can you see who it is?”
Russ wrestled out of his close-fitting dress uniform jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. He punched the button while loosening his tie.
“Hello, Ms. Fergusson, this is the Washington County Hospital Outpatient Clinic, calling about your blood test. I’m sorry about the delay—we’re usually much more prompt than this, but Doctor Stillman’s sudden retirement caused a bit of confusion over here. In any case, could you please call as soon as you get this? I have important information for you and your primary care physician.”
Russ jotted down the number while his insides congealed into a frozen lump. That test was supposed to have been for Trip Stillman only, to determine whether he would write Clare another prescription for sleeping pills and Dexedrine.
“If it’s my mother, you can call her back and tell her I’m writing the thank-you notes as fast as I can.” She wandered into the kitchen in jeans and an old sweater. His wife.
His wife.
“Did you go ahead and ask Trip for another prescription?”
She glared at him, then settled. “No. I didn’t. I ran out of sleeping pills two days ago, and I’m almost out of the uppers.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I’m serious about kicking them, Russ. If I’m tempted to cheat, I’ll tell you.”
“You need to call the blood clinic. Now.” He pushed her away and gave her the slip of paper.
She frowned as she read the number. “Why?”
“They called you. I don’t know why. Just get back to them. Please.” He walked into the living room while she dialed. Maybe she didn’t think about cancer, but he did. He paced from the sofa to the desk to the teetering pile of gift boxes beneath the front window. Maybe she was happy to ignore the connection between her sister’s cancer and her own increased risk of the disease, but he wasn’t. He unhooked his parka from the coat tree and rehung it on a different dowel. They hadn’t even had time to move the rest of his stuff into the rectory. He wished he believed in God. It would be nice to have somebody to bargain with. Let her be okay and I’ll—what? What did people offer an almighty being, anyway?
He forced himself to go back into the kitchen. Clare was standing with her back to him. She was very still. “Are you sure?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.” She paused. “No, but I can get a recommendation from my GP.” She paused again. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone. She didn’t face him.
“What?” His voice came out more harshly than he intended. “For God’s sake, just tell me.”
She turned around. Bit her lower lip. “It’s a good thing I was planning to quit the pills and booze.” She started to laugh, a loose, helpless laugh that was very close to crying. She held out her hands.
>
He took them. “I’m holding on.”
“Don’t let go.” She took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
ALSO BY JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING
I Shall Not Want
All Mortal Flesh
To Darkness and to Death
Out of the Deep I Cry
A Fountain Filled with Blood
In the Bleak Midwinter
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
ONE WAS A SOLDIER. Copyright © 2011 by Julia Spencer-Fleming. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Spencer-Fleming, Julia.
One was a soldier : a Clare Fergusson/Russ van Alstyne mystery / Julia Spencer-Fleming. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-33489-5 (alk. paper)
1. Iraq War, 2003—Veterans—Fiction. 2. Veterans—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Fergusson, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Van Alstyne, Russ (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 5. Women clergy—Fiction. 6. Police chiefs—Fiction. 7. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 8. City and town life—New York (State)—Adirondack Mountains–Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.P467064 2011
813'.6–dc22
2010042002
First Edition: April 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-2024-7
First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: April 2011
One Was a Soldier Page 43