All Mortal Flesh

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  But what he could do was cause one god-awful accident. How far was her siren going to carry over the howl of the wind and the roar of the blower and the swish of the wipers? “Get off the road,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  A shape loomed out of the darkness ahead. O’Brien swore and stood on the brakes, her car’s rear shaking like a bucking bronco. The red taillights loomed larger, and larger, and she gritted her teeth and braced for the impact, and then the traffic in the right lane opened up and the SUV slid across the lane and into the snow piled by the side of the road.

  “Dispatch, vehicle off the Thruway at my mark,” she got out, right before a flurry of red brake lights sparked through the gray snow haze. A car in front of her spun into the median. She swerved, clipped a minivan with her rear right quarter, saw the car ahead of it slip sideways oh God please don’t roll and the minivan crunch into its hood, both vehicles spinning out of control oh God please and then ahead of her another car skidded out of the murk and plunged into the median and kept going and going and she registered no lights and she registered box and she said, “God damn, he’s taking the turnaround. He’s trying to head east.”

  A split-second glance in her rearview showed her nothing following in the six feet of visibility she had. She swung the car into the turnaround, struggling to hold it, skidding wide, the tires churning and clutching, the dim shape of the Volvo almost-maybe there in front of her. Her wheels dug down into the snow, caught on sand and gravel, and she surged forward, the frame shuddering, only to slam on the brakes as she went past the Volvo, went past its nose, which wasn’t where it should have been, and realized it hadn’t been able to keep the turn and had instead skewed backward, down into the hollow of the median.

  “Suspect has come to a halt,” O’Brien said, not realizing she was shouting until the words rang in her abused ears. She turned the siren off. “I have at least three vehicles off the road in addition. At least one collision.”

  “Ambulances on the way,” Dispatch said.

  She unholstered her weapon and wrenched open her door. The wind and snow beat against her face. She kicked through the churned-up mess of snow and earth and then waded into the median, her gun in position. She stopped to the right of the driver’s door. She could see the man inside, pale-faced and dark-haired. Thickset and terrified-looking. She kept her sights on him. “Get out!” she screamed against the wind. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  He unlatched the door and listed out, one hand in the air. “Both hands up!” He flopped his wrist, and she could see that there was something wrong with his other arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a whirl of red and white. Her backup.

  “Dennis Shambaugh,” she yelled. “You’re under arrest.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Clare sat at her desk and watched the snow fall past the diamond-paned windows in her office. It made a beautiful picture, like an illustration from a Snow White storybook she had as a girl. She could imagine herself opening the casement and pricking her finger, the red against the snow. Hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, lips red as blood.

  Blood on snow. She wrenched her gaze away from the window and forced her attention back to the papers in front of her. She had done all she could reasonably do. She had called the people who had lost animals, and then she had called the police. Why weren’t they the ones who had seen the pattern, anyway? She was a priest. Why did she have to do their legwork for them?

  She flashed on a long-ago conversation with Russ.

  Legwork? he had teased.

  Well, that’s what they call it on TV.

  She smacked the papers with the flat of her hand. No more of that. She was going to get her work finished and go home. Make some soup and put in a DVD and say her prayers and go to sleep. And that would be the end of the first day of never seeing Russ again.

  She sank her head in her hands. That was the blood and blackness in her picture. She had already done this, just last Monday, and been whipped from pillar to post in the past four days. His wife was dead, then she wasn’t. He was a suspect, then Clare was. He needed her, relied on her, leaned on her. Then he weighed her and found her wanting. Yesterday morning he sat here, right here in this office, and let her hold his heartbreak in her hands. Now they couldn’t talk to each other.

  No wonder she was distracted. She was waiting for the next blow to fall.

  The phone rang.

  She eyed it. When Lois had left an hour ago, she had set incoming calls to ring to the rector’s office. If Clare didn’t pick up after ten rings, it went into voicemail, to be dealt with when they had all dug out from underneath the storm.

  Clare picked up the receiver. “St. Alban’s Church.”

  “Hey, Reverend Fergusson.”

  “Harlene? Why are you whispering?”

  “The Wicked Witch of the West asked me to get you on the phone. But I had to pass on some news first. The state police have Dennis Shambaugh in custody. Eric McCrea and herself are meeting up with the arresting officer at Troop G headquarters for the interrogation.”

  “Holy cow!” Clare whispered. She cleared her throat. “Does Russ know?”

  “I left a message on his cell. He’s been hauling all over the North Country today, talking to Linda’s customers. If he hasn’t headed home already, he’s probably still at the Algonquin. Oops.” Harlene reverted to her normal voice. “Hold please.” There was a click.

  “Reverend Fergusson?” The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound happy.

  “Hello, Investigator Jensen. What can I do for you?”

  “You can stop blabbing police business to the press.”

  Jensen must have finally read the Post-Star, which was more than Clare was going to do. “I never spoke to the paper. Whatever the reporter got he got from hanging around the police station.”

  “I’m talking about Quinn Tracey,” Jensen snapped.

  “What?”

  “Officer Flynn went to his house to question him. The boy’s mother said a reporter had called and asked to talk to the kid. After the conversation, the kid took a powder.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “You have information or suspicions? Call us. And then trust that we’ll handle it. Don’t go yapping to the Post-Star.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “It was the same reporter who’s covering the Keane murder, Reverend. Do you want me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

  “It—well, not exactly, but I didn’t—”

  “Look, I don’t have time. I’m heading down to Loudonville. If we can’t turn the Tracey kid up, I’m holding you personally responsible. Have a nice day.”

  Clare was left holding the receiver, her mouth open to ask another question. What do you want Quinn Tracey for? Jensen’s level of vitriol seemed way overblown for someone who had dismissed Clare’s findings as over-the-top pranks. Unless Jensen had decided there was something more to the string of animal killings. Something like . . .

  Audrey Keane.

  Where would Quinn run to? Almost before the question had formed itself in her mind, she knew the answer. She reached for the phone book and flipped through the pages until she found MACENTYRE, CRAIG AND VICKI.

  She dialed the number. It rang, and rang, and rang, and when the answering machine picked up she wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “Aaron? This is Clare Fergusson. We spoke the other day about your friend Quinn. Would you—”

  “Hello,” Aaron said.

  “Oh.” Clare felt foolish. “You’re home.”

  “My folks aren’t here. When I’m home alone, I’m supposed to listen to see who it is before I answer.” His voice was different. Flat.

  “Um . . .” She didn’t want to alarm him with something out of a summer scream fest. Get out of the house now! “When are your parents getting home?”

  “I don’t know. They and my sister went shopping in Albany. I can take care of myself if they have to stay, due to the weather.”

  Aaro
n sounded as if he were far away, talking about someone else entirely.

  “Are you okay?” Clare asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is your friend Quinn there?”

  “Quinn?”

  She sighed. “Aaron, the police very much want to question him. If he’s there, or if he shows up, you need to call them and let them know right away.”

  “Call the police and let them know. Okay.”

  She was past exasperated and into worry. “Is he there right now?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if he was?”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t think of anything else. It wasn’t like she could crawl through the line to keep the boy safe. “It’s not a game. Call the police if he contacts you in any way.”

  “I will. Good-bye, Reverend Fergusson.”

  She hung up. Looked out the window at the snow. Now what? She picked up the phone and dialed the police station again.

  “Millers Kill PD.”

  “Harlene, it’s Clare. I’m sorry to bug you, but I have an idea where Quinn Tracey might be.”

  “Is this official? Okay, hang on, I’m going to record it. Go on.”

  Clare explained about the boy’s friendship with Aaron MacEntyre, and the phone call she had just had.

  “So, you’re thinking because he seemed funny over the phone, that maybe the Tracey kid was already over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ever talk to Aaron MacEntyre on the phone before?”

  “No.”

  Harlene made a noise. “Never mind, I trust your instincts. I’ll send someone over there as soon as I can, but I have to tell you, we’re real shorthanded right now.”

  Clare hesitated. I have done all that I can reasonably do.

  No, you haven’t.

  “I’m going to head over there myself,” she said.

  “Reverend, I don’t think—”

  “I need to do it. I’ll have my cell phone with me.” She rattled off the number to the dispatcher.

  “You know, the chief isn’t going to like this one bit.”

  Clare paused for a moment, to make sure there was no trace of bitterness in her mouth. “I think the chief has more important things to worry about than me.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  By the time he stepped inside the last of the Algonquin’s three hundred rooms, Russ didn’t want to see another poofy quilted coverlet, mahogany armoire, or fringe-bedecked armchair in this lifetime. He and Barbara LeBlanc had worked their way from the Presidential and Honeymoon suites through the executive suites, junior suites, deluxe rooms, superior rooms, and standard rooms without finding any sign that his wife had ever been here.

  He had gotten an eyeful of John Opperman’s current living quarters—in the Presidential Suite, of course—but the only thing that revealed about the president of BWI, Inc., was that he kept stacks of business magazines in the bathroom and that he had really dull tastes in music—unless the Three Tenors and Classical Light CDs stacked by the built-in stereo system came with the room.

  As they descended the stairs—the elevators were still offline while the electricians worked on the system—he heard a woman’s voice yelling from the lobby.

  “Hello! Anybody here? Russ?”

  Barbara LeBlanc shot him a glance. “You’re certainly livening up the place today.”

  He took the remaining stairs two at a time and emerged, knees twinging, into the canvas-and plastic-covered lobby.

  He saw a blonde in a familiar red peacoat, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest, but in the next moment, he recognized his sister-in-law, who must have appropriated one of Linda’s coats.

  “Debbie?”

  She turned. She actually looked relieved to see him, which meant she must have really been worried she was stuck up here in an empty hotel with a storm raging outside. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’ve come to help search for my sister.” Her defiant tone wobbled. It had probably been a bad drive up the mountain.

  “You can help by staying put. The last thing I need is to be hauling you out of a snowbank.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It figures you’d say that. It’s a lot easier to claim you’ve been moving heaven and earth to find her if no one else is around as a witness, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he started.

  “Hi.” Barbara glided up beside him and extended her hand to Debbie. “I’m Barbara LeBlanc, the manager.”

  “Debbie Wolecski.” She bent her wrist and took the manager’s hand in the kind of grasp no guy would ever attempt. “Linda Van Alstyne’s sister.”

  “Ah.”

  “Has he told you that she’s missing?”

  Barbara smiled crookedly. “We’ve just finished searching the hotel for her. I’ve seen parts of this place I didn’t even know existed.”

  Debbie looked from the manager to Russ. “Nothing? No sign of her?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nothing from any of the places she worked at?”

  “How did you know I was visiting her work sites?”

  Debbie made an impatient gesture. “I spoke to the dispatcher at the police station. She told me I should stay put, too.”

  Russ dragged one hand through his hair, feeling tension knots kinking through his shoulders. “You should leave your rental here and come back into town with me. I’ll run you back up tomorrow after they’ve plowed out.” He glanced at Barbara. “That’d be okay, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure. Our caretaker will plow our drive and the private road down to Sacandaga Road. You can leave your car here as long as you like.”

  Russ fished in his back pocket and pulled out a creased business card. “Best way to reach me will be my cell phone for the next few days,” he said, handing it to her. “Please call me as soon as Opperman gets back from his business trip. It’s probably a long shot, but he might know—”

  The front door inched open, admitting a gust of frigid air and a swirl of snowflakes. A man, angular and anonymous in a black wool dress coat and a scarf, banged his suitcase against the door, forcing it wider.

  “Speak of the devil,” Barbara LeBlanc said cheerfully.

  A woman staggered through the door, clutching her valise in one hand and the neck of her coat with the other. The man let the door swing shut behind her. She plucked the hat from her head and shook out her blond curls. Her eyes widened as she saw the three onlookers.

  “Russ? Debbie!”

  The man—Opperman—unwound his scarf, scattering snow on the plastic sheeting.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Linda Van Alstyne asked.

  FORTY-SIX

  Debbie burst into tears. She covered her mouth with one hand and groped toward Linda with the other, shaking so hard from her sobs she could hardly walk.

  Russ couldn’t move. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take his eyes off his wife, off her confused, red-cheeked, alive face.

  “Debbie, what’s wrong?” Linda dropped her suitcase and hurried toward her sister. “What are you doing here? Is it one of the boys?” She opened her arms and Debbie fell into her embrace, still unable to speak.

  “We thought you were dead,” Russ said hoarsely.

  Linda looked up at him, strands of her sister’s hair clinging to her jaw. “What are you talking about?”

  He found he could move again, and he was on her in two strides, wrapping his arms around both sisters, squeezing them so tight Linda squeaked. “We thought you were dead,” he repeated, and Debbie nodded her head, smearing tears and snowmelt over Linda’s shoulder.

  “If you had bothered to stop by and check, the house sitter I hired could have told you where I’d gone.” Linda’s voice was amused.

  Russ reared back enough to look her in the face. “Audrey Keane was murdered in our kitchen. Her throat was cut, and her face was so disfigured we couldn’t tell it wasn’t you.”

  Linda’s bi
g blue eyes got wide and her perfectly shaped mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me.”

  “We thought it was you!” Debbie wailed. “Until last night, we thought it was you! I had to go to your house and pick out an outfit for you—for you—for the—” Her tears got the best of her again.

  “But . . . my God, that’s horrible!”

  “Where. Were. You?”

  Linda flinched at the anger in his voice. She glanced away from him to where the Algonquin’s owner was stripping off his coat and gloves. “John let me use his house on St. Croix.”

  Once, as a kid, Russ had spent the afternoon wading through the swift shallow waters of the upper Hudson, amusing himself by sending stick canoes over the edge of the nearby waterfall. He came home slimy from falling between the slick stones, and his mother had screamed at him and shaken him and swore if he ever did that again he’d be grounded for a month, and he didn’t understand why until later, when he found out two kids had drowned after they lost their footing and swept over the falls into the boiling rapids below. His mother told him she was furious because she loved him, but he didn’t understand why, if that was so, she didn’t cry and hug him and treat him especially nice, instead of sending him to bed early with no dessert and no TV.

  Now he knew. He gripped Linda’s shoulders hard, so hard he could feel her sinew and bones beneath the heavy wool of her coat. “You were on a beach in the Caribbean while I was listening to your goddamn autopsy report?”

  “I’m sorry! Next time I’ll take out an ad in the paper!” She twisted, but he held on fast, fingers digging in. Hurting her, the way she had hurt him.

  “How the hell did you get there, anyway? Your passport was at home! All your makeup and stuff was at home!”

  “You don’t need a passport. It’s a U.S. territory. And if you don’t know by now that I have a travel kit of makeup and toiletries . . .” She let out a puff of air that said, You’re hopeless. “Please let go of me.”