To Darkness and to Death

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “We gotta go right now.” She grabbed Randy by the jacket shoulders and kissed him. “Go to bed and sleep it off, baby.”

  “How are you going to get home?” Mark asked.

  “Randy can come get me on his motorcycle. You’ll be okay by noon, won’t you, sweets?”

  Randy grunted over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the door.

  Mark swung back into the squad car, and Lisa dropped into the passenger seat. “Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said.

  “Yes it is,” she said, “and you’re a good sport. You’re my favorite brother-in-law.”

  “I’m your only brother-in-law.” He grinned despite himself. He liked Lisa; he always had. Both she and Rachel had inherited their dad’s relentless work ethic and their mom’s broad streak of common sense. Which is why he still couldn’t figure out what she was doing with Randy Schoof. “Are you two going to be okay? With Randy losing his lumbering job?”

  “Sure. He’ll find something else. He turns jobs up all the time during the rest of the year. I’ll see if I can pick up a few more cleaning jobs in the meanwhile. Mrs. Reid, the lady I clean for Thursdays? She says she’d be glad to recommend me to her friends.”

  Mark kept his mouth shut as he pulled onto the paved road. He and Rachel had both argued with Lisa before. She ought to be in school. She ought to be working a real job, with real benefits and pay that counted toward Social Security instead of cleaning houses under the table. Her answer was always the same. Randy needed her. He needed her steady income. He needed her to do all the things around the house he didn’t have time to do. As far as Mark could tell, Randy needed Lisa to wipe his ass for him.

  They drove in silence along the winding mountain highway. Dead leaves swirled behind the squad car and rattled into drifts at the edge of the road. The woods were dark now, the colors of October fallen away, the weathered trunks of the deciduous trees rising among the mournful evergreens like smoke from a funeral pyre.

  “Slow down. The entrance is right here.”

  He slowed and turned between two riverstone pillars. There was no indication they were the entrance to the fabled Haudenosaunee, only a mailbox on a wooden post and a sign reading PRIVATE WAY. The road to the great camp wasn’t much different from Lisa and Randy’s driveway, except that the dense firs and tangled brush were kept back far enough to allow a plow to get through. And you’d need a plow, not a snowblower, Mark realized, as the road wound on and on with no sign of a house. “How long is this drive?” he asked Lisa.

  “A couple miles.” She looked at him. “What did you expect? It was built to be a wilderness camp. Mr. van der Hoeven told me the paved county road wasn’t built until the eighties. Before that, this went six miles and hooked up with Lower Egypt Road.”

  The trees and brush opened at last to reveal an expanse of gravel, a staggering view of the mountains, and a sweeping two-story log palace. “Wow.” He whistled. “It’s huge.”

  “What the heck?” Lisa leaned forward. “What are all these trucks doing here?”

  Mark surveyed the ragged row of pickups and SUVs. He was about to ask Lisa where she wanted him to let her off when he spotted a tiny car tucked in behind the bigger vehicles. “Wait a sec.” He drove toward the sports car. “This is Reverend Fergusson’s car.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s the rector over at St. Alban’s.” He slowed as he passed the back of the car. THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU, read one bumper sticker. The other one told the world MY OTHER CAR IS AN OH-58. “Yeah, it’s hers all right.”

  “How do you know what a minister’s car looks like?” Lisa grinned at him uneasily. “Please don’t tell me you’re finding religion.”

  “Not me. But I think my boss is.”

  Lisa raised her eyebrows. He ignored the implicit question. It wasn’t anybody’s business that the chief had been getting in and out of this car, despite having a perfectly good truck at home. He didn’t approve, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to gossip about it.

  “So, you want me to walk you to the door? Check out what’s going on?”

  It took him a moment to decipher the expression on her face as reluctance. Getting a ride from her off-duty brother-in-law was one thing, but she didn’t want to appear at her employer’s door escorted by a police officer asking questions. “Um . . . ,” she said.

  He grinned, letting her off the hook. “Okay, I get the picture. Give me a call later if you need a ride home.”

  “Randy’ll come and get me.”

  Yeah. ’Cause he’s just so reliable. He watched her whisk around the corner of the house, presumably headed for the kitchen door. He had done what he could. Some people . . . you just couldn’t get through to them. His eye fell on the red Shelby Cobra, its chrome winking in the early sun. Some people . . . were going to shoot themselves in the foot no matter what you did.

  6:45 A.M.

  She opened her eyes and saw it was light. It must have been growing brighter for some time now, but after her first thrashing panic attack, she had drifted into a stupor of defeat. She didn’t want to—she couldn’t—think about what was happening to her, what might happen to her. So she went away, inside her head, tuning out her body and her surroundings.

  But now it was light. Suddenly, she was aware of everything. Her arms were numb. Her hip felt bruised, her neck muscles bunched and painful. Her stomach growled. She had to pee.

  She rolled across the wooden floor, out of the blankets that had enclosed her. She was wearing one of her flannel shirts and sweatpants, but whether she had dressed herself or someone else had was a mystery. She had on socks and hiking boots, and her ankles had been wound about with duct tape in a wide figure-eight. Probably the same stuff that covered her mouth and held her wrists pinned behind her back. Somehow, she had expected something more exotic. Not the old handyman’s standby.

  She twisted fully onto her back and contracted her stomach. She slowly jackknifed into a seated position. The effort left her trembling and breathing heavily through her nose. If she could just get to her feet . . . she tried rolling forward, but her knees wouldn’t spread far enough. She wiggled from side to side until she flopped over again, but she couldn’t get her feet beneath her. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She rolled, contracted, got herself seated again.

  She was in a small room. Cell. Unfurnished, except for the tumble of blankets that had kept her warm and a five-gallon bucket. She could guess what that was for. One wall, to her left, was post-and-beam timber, with a small and solid door set well into a massive lintel. The other wall curved around her in a perfect half circle, its dressed stone pierced with three . . . arrow slits. A tower. A stone tower. She was being held prisoner by the sheriff of Nottingham. Beneath her duct-tape gag, she started to laugh. She laughed and laughed until her breath caught in short hitches and she was gasping, flaring her nostrils, sucking down oxygen.

  She finally settled herself down. She was sweaty from her contortions and her panic attack. She wrenched her wrists up and down, hoping her skin was slick enough to slip beneath the duct tape. Nothing. She snorted in disgust. At least she was warm now.

  Then she looked around again. The stone walls, the arrow slits. She realized where she was. And suddenly she was very, very cold.

  6:45 A.M.

  Left. Right. Left. Right.

  Clare forced herself to keep her steps even, her head moving methodically as she climbed up the increasingly steep slope. Tramping through the woods on a fine and frosty November morning was great. It was the actual searching part of it that was, well, boring. After an hour, she had given up on the idea that she was going to stumble over a tearfully grateful Millie van der Hoeven at any moment. She was, she had to admit, too impatient to be a naturally good searcher.

  So to compensate, she plodded. She looked from side to side with mathematical precision. She called out, “Millie? Millie van der Hoeven!” every five minutes by her watch. She
tried to keep her attention focused on where she was and what she was doing, rather than worrying about tomorrow’s visit from the bishop. Everything was going to go fine. Glenn Hadley had waxed the woodwork until you couldn’t lean against the old rood screen without slipping to the floor. The altar guild was coming in today to polish the silver—oh, God, the locked cupboard. Where the good stuff was stored. She thought of the little key, hanging from her key chain. Which was in her car. Did Judy Morrison have a copy?

  The scratch and tug of brambles drew her back to the present. She was taking the path of least resistance through the undergrowth, but a tangle of blackberry stopped her. She backed off and thrashed sideways through a thigh-high stand of brown, papery fern to where the trees grew taller and the vegetation was scarcer. This was ridiculous. No one would have fought her way uphill through this in the dark of night. Even if she thought she knew where she was going.

  “Millie! Millie van der Hoeven!” It wasn’t even seven o’clock and she was already well and truly grubby, one leg slimed where she had slipped on some rotted leaves, her clothing pocked with tiny burrs and clinging seeds, riding along in a last-ditch attempt at procreation. Despite the freezing-point temperature, she had worked up a sweat, and she guessed a mirror would reveal dirt grimed on her face. She would have to scrub herself down as soon as she could—she could just imagine meeting the diocesan deacon like this. The bishop’s front man, he was scheduled to arrive today to make sure all was in readiness for the visit. Normally that meant transporting the bishop’s elaborate vestments and going over the paperwork of candidates for confirmation, but Clare had received a letter just last week from Deacon Aberforth inviting her to a “chat” Saturday. Attendance, she gathered, was not optional. It was probably routine. She was closing in on her second year at St. Alban’s; they were in the middle of a capital campaign. He was probably just taking her temperature. Unless . . . unless someone told him about you and the chief of police, a voice in her head pointed out. It sounded like Master Sergeant Ashley “Hardball” Wright, the man who had tormented her and taught her and toughened her up during her survival training. When you’re behind the lines, don’t forget about friendly fire, Wright said. It may be coming from your team, but it’ll kill you just as quick as your enemies.

  She shook off the thought. Looked left, right, left again. Maybe the missing woman was over the next rise. Maybe.

  7:30 A.M.

  Shaun Reid pretended to sleep. His wife moved through the darkened room quietly, slipping into her running gear, easing herself onto her side of the bed in order to tie her shoes. She leaned over him and kissed his temple softly. He let that rouse him enough to open his eyes.

  “Go back to sleep,” Courtney said. “I just wanted to give you a kiss. I may not see you until this afternoon. After my run, I’m doing some shopping and then heading straight over to St. Alban’s.”

  He made a sleepy, inquiring noise.

  “Tomorrow’s the bishop’s visit. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. I’m chairing the preparation committee. How will it look if my husband doesn’t come to church? Just this once? For me?” She kissed him again before rolling off the bed. “I dropped your dinner jacket off at the dry cleaners. Make sure you pick it up before they close.”

  He closed his eyes and kept them closed, listening to the tread of her running shoes disappear through the hallway, down the stairs, through the foyer. When he heard the thunk of the front door, he opened them again.

  The bishop’s visit. Maybe he should go. The last time he had been to church was their wedding, seven years ago. But what the hell. He needed divine intervention at this point. Dear God, I’m in deep shit. Give me a shovel.

  An acid twinge scorched his stomach. He heaved himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He had a few antacids left in the giant economy-sized bottle he had bought. Last week. He needed to see his doctor, get a prescription, but he had been too pressed for time. Pressed for time. And now he was almost out.

  He shook four tablets into his palm and knocked them back, crunching them into powder before swallowing. He winced at the chalky-sweet taste. He examined himself in the mirror. Christ, he looked terrible. Like he hadn’t slept in a week. Maybe a month. He bent over the sink and splashed cold water in his face. He couldn’t meet Terry McKellan looking like he was on the edge of a breakdown. Confidence. That’s what he had to project. Energy. Resoluteness.

  He checked himself out again. Tried a smile. Maybe caffeine would help.

  In the kitchen, he plugged in the machine and shook a mound of ground coffee into the filter. He thought about cereal or toast, but his stomach roiled in protest. When the coffee was done, he took a cup into his office. His desk, his papers, his open laptop drew him unwillingly, in the way that a gruesome accident demands you slow down and stare. He set his mug beside the computer and turned the machine on. A spreadsheet sprang to life. He went over the numbers again, as if the cobbler’s elves might have come in and done some creative accounting for him while he slept, but no such luck. They were exactly as they had been last night, as they had been at yesterday’s board of directors’ meeting, as they had been since GWP, Inc., had pinned Reid-Gruyn in its massive sights and indicated it might be interested in acquiring the operation.

  Shaun had thought he was safe. He had thought they were too small to draw any of the big boys’ attention. Too specialized. With too slim a margin of profit. That was what was going to sink them, now.

  “We’re not saying that we like the idea of selling up to GWP,” Clyde McAllister had said at the directors’ meeting. “But let’s face it.” He pointed to the spreadsheets in front of him. “If we have to start importing pulp from Canada, the additional costs are going to cut our after-tax profits to the bone. The next slack time or economic downturn, we’ll have to start eating our own belly to survive. We have to recommend the takeover be placed before the shareholders.”

  Where were all the directors that jumped through hoops at their CEO’s command? Why didn’t he have any? Just a group of stone-faced men and women, people who had known him since childhood, for chrissakes, telling him it was their responsibility to the shareholders. Tolling a death knell for the business he had inherited from his father, and his father’s father, and his father before him.

  His hand closed over a short stack of correspondence. Replies from merchant banks in New York, declining to invest in upgrading the depreciable assets, declining to lend the business capital, declining his corporate applications for loans that would let them buy back stock. Terry McKellan was his last hope. If Shaun could get a personal loan, enough to increase the family shareholdings from 49 percent to 51 percent, he could stop the buyout dead in its tracks.

  “If it weren’t for the sale of the Haudenosaunee woods, Shaun.” That had been Elaine Parkinson. “If we weren’t losing that source of pulpwood, we wouldn’t be entertaining this motion. But the new numbers don’t add up.”

  He had read a science fiction story once about a girl who stowed away on a spaceship that was bringing medicine to some far-off planet. The ship had just enough fuel to make it—without the added weight of the girl. So the pilot had shoved her out the airlock. He had been regretful and all, but hey, it was the good of the many against the good of the one. It had been titled “The Cold Equations.” That was what he was in the grip of: cold numbers. Estimates of the cost of pulp imported from Maine, from Canada, from the northernmost reaches of New York. Cold places, where the forests grew unbroken for a million acres and lumbermen drove in in the dead of winter so their ten-ton machines wouldn’t mire on dirt trails. Places he could fly to in an hour, or two, or three. But you can’t fly lumber out. You haul it, board inch by board inch, and every foot of the way costs: the taxes, the insurance, the man-hours, the fuel.

  His board of directors had read all the cold numbers. And they were willing to throw Reid-Gruyn out the airlock.

  He opened a drawer and swept the politely worded turn-downs into it. He turn
ed off his laptop. Time to hit the shower. Put on his most expensive casual clothes—no suit; he wanted to look affluent, not desperate—and go see the corporate loan officer of AllBanc. His last chance. He paused in the doorway. I’m looking for that shovel. Any time now.

  8:00 A.M.

  She counted off the exits as she drove past them. Tuxedo. Half Moon. Clifton Park. Saratoga Springs. Every mile Becky Castle put between herself and Albany felt like another stone rolling off her shoulders. She was headed home for the weekend. Home to the mountains. She triggered the cruise control and jammed her finger on the radio scan button until she found a bouncy country song she loved. “Just before dark, jump in the car . . .” she sang, wishing she had a convertible so her hair could whip all around. Except they didn’t make hybrid convertibles yet.

  Before ski season and after leaf peeping, the Saturday morning traffic was light on the Northway. She had missed the turning leaves, missed them entirely this year, cooped up in the Adirondack Conservancy Corporation’s office in Albany writing grants and copyediting the Your Adirondacks . . . and You! brochure. It was not what she had envisioned when she had joined the conservancy. Not by a long shot. She had pictured herself in the thick of things, carrying a green banner, saving land for future generations. Now, thanks to Global Wood Products, Inc., she was going to get her chance.

  Becky was the one who had put it together. She was the one with the personal contacts with the Haudenosaunee heirs. She was the one who had sold the idea to her higher-ups at the Adirondack Conservancy Corporation. She was the one who came up with a list of prospective buyers, researched the tax advantages, met with the executives of GWP. She was the one who had wrangled, cajoled, kissed up to, persuaded. And tonight, she was going to be at the head table with the conservancy’s president and lawyer, at a ceremony that would take a quarter of a million acres out of private hands, restoring it to the “forever wild” state called for in the New York constitution.