Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries)

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Who the hell you goin’ after up there? Osama bin Laden?”

  “Just plow the road,” Tom O’Day yelled. He and Marie headed for their anonymous black SUV. Flynn jogged over and said something to the driver, who waved in agreement before shifting into gear and lurching forward. His huge steel plow lowered, and the snow and ice that had rendered the road impassable began to roll like water off a tanker’s bow, piling up at the side of the road in a frozen tidal wave.

  Hadley paused, one hand on the Aztek’s door, waiting for Flynn. “What did you say to him?”

  “Asked him to keep going around the lake to where the chief’s cabin is.” Flynn swung into his seat.

  She climbed in and buckled up. “What do you think of the Feds’ plan?”

  “I think it’s balls.” He started the engine and looked at her, frowning. “And I think we’re going to have to be ready to move in right after them, because I think this whole thing is set to go south.”

  9.

  “I think I should go after him.” Tented beneath her parka, Clare tucked her hands inside her sweater to stay warm. They had decided to conserve gas by turning the truck’s engine off. She would turn it on again when it got cold enough to see her breath.

  “He didn’t say I couldn’t shoot you in the leg,” Bob said.

  “It’s ridiculous. He’s been gone way too long.”

  “We haven’t heard any alarm shots.”

  “What if he wasn’t able to fire? What if they got the jump on him?”

  Bob laughed. “Got the jump on him?”

  “You know what I mean.” She slammed her boots against the floorboard and growled out her frustration. “God! I hate this waiting.”

  “You’re a cop’s wife now, Clare. Waiting is what you do.”

  She smiled a little. “Patience has never been my strong suit.” She twisted around to look at him. “How are you doing? Are you warm enough?” She had folded all their blankets around Bob and layered the extra sweaters over him.

  “I’m good. I may have to take this first aid box home with me, though.”

  “I don’t know if your doctor will approve of those magic pills.” She kept her voice light, but she was concerned. Not over Bob popping Oxys since they had first opened the box—it took longer than twenty-four hours to make an addict, even with a powerful narcotic—but over the damage his leg might be sustaining, masked by the powerful painkiller.

  He nodded past her shoulder. “Take a look.”

  She spun around, and there, coming around the bend of the road, was Russ, and beside him—

  “Oscar!” Clare leaped from the car, her parka forgotten on her seat. “Oscar!” The dog bounded toward her and nearly bowled her over with his ecstatic greeting. Clare dropped to her knees and hugged him, ruffling his fur all over until she saw the streak of dried blood on his flank. She looked up at Russ.

  “I think it was just a graze,” he said. “He’s moving fine, and he’s not acting like he’s in pain. He’s probably pretty hungry and thirsty, though.” He reached down to help her stand.

  “Are you all right? Did you find anything?”

  He put his arm around her. “Let’s get in the car. I think Oscar and I both need to warm up some.”

  They emptied the Oxys into Bob’s coat pocket and poured the contents of one of the water bottles into the first aid box. Oscar drank it all, then most of a second bottle, before settling in the passenger-side well between Clare’s legs to dine on the remaining pudding cups. Russ described the scene—the setback for cars, the stream, the wide, cleared fields, and the tightly closed barn.

  “There’s no way you’re getting in there alone,” Bob said.

  “That was my take.” Russ looked at Clare. “I know you wanted to bring Mikayla out with us, Clare, but at this point, the best thing we can do is try to make it to civilization and find help.”

  Clare knuckled the top of Oscar’s head. The dog sighed and leaned against her leg. “There has to be ten inches of snow on top of the ice the storm laid down. What if we just get stuck?”

  “Then you and Bob will stay with the truck and I’ll hike out. Once I get to the county highway, I’ll flag down the first vehicle I see and hitch a ride.”

  She looked out the window. “It’ll be dark in an hour or so. And the temperature’s going to drop like a stone now the skies are clearing.”

  “I know.”

  Her lips twisted. “Just once in a while, you could pretty it up for me.” She sighed. “All right. I don’t like it, but we can’t sit here and do nothing.”

  He took her hand. “Good girl.” He shifted into gear and began a slow, careful back-and-forth, turning them around until they were pointed back toward the county highway, some twelve miles distant. Clare stroked Oscar’s head and tried to settle into a prayer; that they would make it through the snow, that Russ wouldn’t be forced to trek miles through the freezing dark, that they could find help for Mikayla Johnson before it was too late. Her eyes were half-closed, but they snapped open again when Russ said, “The hell?”

  They were almost at the intersection of Haines Mountain Road and the South Shore Drive, and there was a full-sized snowplow coming straight at them. It swerved, as if the driver hadn’t expected to see anyone in his path, and behind the plow she caught a slice of a black SUV and a patrol car and—

  “Clare,” Russ said, “isn’t that Kevin Flynn’s Aztek?”

  10.

  Ahead of them, the O’Days’ SUV stopped and the brake lights lit on the deputy’s Prowler. The plow veered to one side, then back, then angled toward what must be another road. Hadley looked down at the map. “We’re not supposed to turn off.”

  Kevin feathered his brakes to alert the staties behind them. The SUV’s doors swung open and the agents emerged, drawing their weapons. “What?” Hadley twisted sideways, as if she could see past the plow by force of will. “Is that them up ahead? Do you think Mikayla’s with them?”

  Kevin was already unbuckling. “C’mon.” They jumped out of the Aztek and jogged forward, slipping and sliding in the frozen muck. The O’Days were shouting at the man advancing toward them, telling him to get on the ground, and as they swung their weapons into position the man emerged from the tree shadow into the waning light and it was the chief.

  “Oh, shit!” Hadley tore off up the road. “Stop! Put down your weapons! Put down your weapons!” The Essex County deputy had emerged from his car and was heading toward the Feds as well, his sidearm out.

  “It’s our chief!” Kevin bellowed as he ran by the deputy. The man stared at him. Hadley barreled right through the Feds—Kevin saw Marie O’Day jerk back with surprise—and skidded to a stop between them and the chief.

  “Put your weapons down!” She pointed behind her. “He’s a cop!”

  “Chief!” Kevin raced past Hadley to meet up with Van Alstyne. “Are you okay?”

  The chief looked bemused. “I’m fine. Did someone hear our radio signal?”

  “What? No, we thought you and Reverend Clare were snowbound. We’re here after Travis Roy. We think he might be hiding—”

  “In a meth house up the road from here? Yeah, I know.” He frowned at the Feds, who had holstered their weapons but were looking at him suspiciously. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

  They walked over to the O’Days and the deputy. The state police tac guys caught up with them about halfway through the chief’s account of a couple of days of pure horror show.

  “—so we decided to scope out the place and see if it’d be possible to get in and get Mikayla out.” He paused to shake hands with the staties. “We’ve got one of your officers back there in my truck. Bob Mongue. He has a broken leg.”

  “Then who’s that?” the senior tac officer asked.

  The chief turned to see who was walking toward them. Kevin saw that flash of expression he always got around the reverend, like he was smiling inside where no one could see. “Ah. That’s my wife.”

  Tom
O’Day frowned. “Is she … also law enforcement?” He sounded as if he wouldn’t have been surprised if the chief marched the entire graduating class of the state police academy out of the woods.

  “No. She’s an Episcopal priest.”

  Hadley hugged Reverend Clare when she joined the group. “I’m so glad to see you,” she whispered. “It sounds like you guys had a rough time.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Clare raised her voice. “Do y’all have an EMT with you? Lieutenant Mongue needs medical attention as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Marie O’Day looked at Van Alstyne. “Our plan was to get in, get Travis Roy, and get whatever information he might have about the missing girl.”

  “They’re both there,” the chief said. “Along with her father, Hector DeJean. DeJean’s plan is evidently to get out of the country. He’s just waiting for the weather to break.” He glanced up at the sky, where the clouds were parting. Long rays of orange and rose lit up the forest and the distant mountains.

  “Tonight, then,” Kevin said.

  “Most likely.” The chief returned his attention to the Feds. “If we’re going to surround the place, we’d better get into position soon. There’s only a short time between twilight and moonrise.” He looked at the tac officers. “Darkness is the only cover we’re going to have over that ground. Somebody have a vest they can spare me?”

  “I do, chief.” The deputy headed back to his unit.

  Tom O’Day stepped forward. “Maybe you’d better sit this one out, Chief Van Alstyne. As your officer said, you’ve had a rough few days. Surely you want to see your wife to a place of safety.”

  The chief made a noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, no. I have a personal bone to pick with Roy and DeJean.” He looked down at Reverend Clare. “And my wife can take care of herself.”

  She let a tiny smile escape before her expression sobered. “I’ll take Lieutenant Mongue to the hospital, then. Now the road is plowed, I shouldn’t have any difficulties.”

  “Go slow,” Kevin warned. “Even plowed, the surfaces are still pretty treacherous.”

  “I will. Thank you, Officer Flynn. Russ? A moment?”

  They stepped aside to exchange a few words. Kevin couldn’t help it—he glanced at Hadley. She was looking at him. He expected his face probably looked like the chief’s did. Hadley dropped her gaze. Kevin tried to school his expression. If he didn’t keep it under control, it wouldn’t take more than forty-eight hours for the rest of the department to figure out what was going on.

  The chief bent his head and kissed Reverend Clare good-bye. He rejoined their circle in time to accept the ballistics vest from the deputy. “Nearest hospital is in Ticonderoga,” the deputy said. “I’ll give your wife directions.”

  “Thank you.” The chief turned to the others. “We can get fairly close to the spread before we have to ditch the vehicles. I can show you. Kevin, can I get a ride?”

  In the Aztek, Hadley surrendered the front seat to the chief. As Kevin started the engine and pulled out in front of the Feds’ SUV, she leaned forward. “Chief? What did Reverend Clare say to you?”

  He crooked half a smile. “What I always say to my officers. ‘Don’t be a hero.’”

  11.

  The chief didn’t think much of the Feds’ plan of attack, either. He paused from checking the SIG Sauer the state police lieutenant had given him and looked at the O’Days. “That’s bullshit.”

  Tom O’Day tugged his thermal watch cap over his ears. He and his wife were both kitted out in some sort of sleek performance-fabric version of assault gear. Hadley was jealous. Even in long johns and flannel-lined uniform pants, she was chilly.

  “This is our operation, Chief Van Alstyne. Your officers are here as a courtesy, not as part of the tactical team.”

  Flynn shot Hadley a look. She rolled her eyes.

  “There are at least three men in that house. Maybe more. How are you going to keep from getting shot in the back?”

  They were standing on the crest of the road, giving the state tac guys time to get into position before the rest of them took cover around the perimeter of the field. They had all synchronized their watches and said check, something Hadley had thought was reserved for the movies. They all had walkie-talkies, except the chief, but they were maintaining operational silence unless absolutely necessary. Sound traveled a long way on a winter night.

  “Our way in is through DeJean.” Marie O’Day strapped her night-vision goggles into place over her watch cap. “By your account, he’s attempting to care for his daughter. We’ll give him a way to get her out of the house safely and we’ll offer her immediate medical care.”

  “Travis Roy is the primary suspect in the arson-murder.” Tom checked the chambers in his pump-action riot gun. “Once we have DeJean and, more importantly, the child, you and the sheriff’s office”—he nodded toward the deputy—“can close in and arrest him.”

  “Roy’s and DeJean’s needs no longer align. We exploit that. Divide and conquer.” Marie looked at her watch. “It’s time.”

  Her husband nodded. They took off down the steep road, the large letters FBI on their backs almost glowing in the deep blue twilight.

  “Feds.” The chief shook his head. “There are so many ways this thing can go bad, I don’t even want to think about it.” He dropped the SIG P226 in his pocket and hefted his shotgun. “Our default is going to be front”—he pointed to himself and the deputy—“and back.” He pointed to Hadley and Flynn. “There was at least one person in the barn, and there may well be more, but the entrance is a pretty effective bottleneck. Just don’t any of you let youself get picked off by the staties, okay?”

  The deputy grinned. “They can try.”

  They headed down the road in a pack, slipping and skidding until they reached the stream the chief had told them about. “Flares?” he whispered.

  They were carrying road flares from the deputy’s unit. Hadley and Flynn gave the thumbs-up. “Got it,” whispered the deputy.

  “Mine is the signal. I don’t care what you hear coming from the house, you don’t go until you see me. Understood?” They all nodded.

  “Chief? Are you sure you don’t want my walkie-talkie?” Flynn held it out.

  “No. You’re moving around. I’m going to be in a static position until we advance.” He looked at them. “Don’t just rely on the walkie-talkies. You get into trouble, you light your flare.” They nodded again. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Van Alstyne and the deputy had the unenviable job of belly-crawling along the edge of the road in front of the house. Hadley had to admit, the O’Days had gotten their timing down right. In the indigo end of the day, the two men merged into the gloom and disappeared.

  She and Flynn headed up the stream, a much easier route to get into position. Flynn had to bend over, but she was short enough to walk upright. The chief had described the spot with the fallen pine as the perfect vantage point, and it was. She switched off her walkie-talkie so it couldn’t cause feedback and harnessed it. They wedged themselves against the near bank and looked over the edge. Across the field, the house’s many-paned windows shone with the light from kerosene lanterns, and the snow enclosing it, lit in geometric patterns, cast enough of a glow to let them make out the details of porch, corners, barn.

  “Looks like a Currier and Ives picture,” Flynn said, his voice low.

  “Grandmother’s Meth House.”

  Over the river and through the woods, he hummed. She pressed her face into her shoulder to keep from laughing.

  He made a noise to direct her attention. The O’Days had emerged from the darkness and were approaching the back porch. Hadley drew her Glock and swept away enough of the snow in front of her to brace her arms and take aim.

  The Feds entered the back of the house without a sound. Hadley found herself holding her breath, straining to hear a shout, a scream, or, God forbid, gunfire. There was nothing. The deep winter silence of a cold night pressed do
wn on them unbroken. The minutes crawled by. The chill was stinging her cheeks and forehead, seeping through her pants and parka into her bones. She flexed her toes and tensed her muscles, but she was afraid to move any more than that, balanced as she was against the slippery slope of the bank.

  “What the hell’s going on in there?” Flynn hissed, and at the same moment, the back door opened. One, two, three people came out, one of them carrying a large bundle. In silhouette, it looked like the O’Days and DeJean, but she couldn’t be sure. Unlike the Feds and the state tac duo, MKPD officers weren’t issued night-vision glasses.

  DeJean was a big man, but the two agents were tall, too, and these three, side by side, gave her no measuring point. They crossed the side yard and continued toward the road. As they walked past the front corner of the house, the ambient lantern light and the angle of their backs met and the letters FBI blazed out at her.

  “It’s them,” she whispered. Beneath a knit cap, she could make out a bit of DeJean’s shaved bald skull. The edge of a quilt, wrapped around the bundle in his arms, flopped over his burly shoulder.

  “Easy to recognize,” Flynn agreed. “Once you’ve met Hector DeJean, you’re not likely to forget him.”

  It came to her, just like that, the thing she had heard an hour or two ago and dismissed. “Flynn. Remember what Tom O’Day said when we were passing around the briefing sheets? He told the staties DeJean didn’t look like his mug shot anymore because he was bald.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “That was the most recent mug shot on record. There aren’t any new pictures of him in VICAP.” The massive New York database of criminal offenders.

  “Yeah…”

  She looked at him. “If there aren’t any current photos of DeJean on file, how did Tom O’Day know he was bald?”

  12.

  Lyle was standing in the parking lot of Napoli’s Liquor, cuffing a perp, when Harlene called him. It had been as crazy a day as the past two, despite the snow easing up. The volunteer fire company was run ragged with overburdened chimneys bursting into flame and kerosene heaters igniting. Folks stuck in their houses for the past three days decided the break in the weather was just the time to stock back up on water and milk, with a corresponding rise in fender benders as they slid into each other on the way to the store. And a few geniuses, like the guy Lyle was steering into the backseat, realized the massive power outages meant a lot of security systems weren’t working. He probably would have gotten away with cleaning out Napoli’s till and carting off a trunkful of booze if he hadn’t decided to load up on coffee brandy while on the job.