At the sight of the handcuffs, Debba burst into tears. She shook her head wildly, sending clouds of kinky blond hair flying everywhere. “I’m going to cuff you while you’re with Officer Flynn,” Russ said, his voice steady. “When I come back in to talk with you, I’ll take these off.”
Debba gasped out, “No, no,” but obediently held out her wrists. Russ snapped the metal constraints on her. “Kevin,” he said. Officer Flynn appeared and put his hands on Debba’s shoulders. Russ pivoted. “Laura,” he said to the nurse, “is there a place where Ms. Clow can sit down in private?”
“We’ve got an old-fashioned ladies’ lounge with a sofa and everything.” The nurse beckoned. “Follow me.”
Officer Flynn guided Debba out of the examination room and down the hall, with Clare close on his heels. The nurse-Laura-opened the door closest to the stairs. It was indeed an old-fashioned ladies’ lounge, with the toilets and sinks discreetly behind a second, interior door. “Come here, honey, and sit down.” Laura patted the sofa, an overstuffed red velvet monstrosity that looked as if it had been taken from a whorehouse. Clare recognized it immediately as the soul mate to her own office’s sagging love seat-the one piece of furniture that couldn’t be auctioned off. Debba sat down shakily, still weeping. Officer Flynn perched on the edge next to her, somewhere between guarding and comforting her.
“Don’t feel so bad,” the nurse said. “I’ve been arrested plenty of times. They’ll have the bail bondsman over at the station half an hour after you get there and you’ll be home in time to make supper.”
Clare took a closer look at the tiny redhead. “Wait a minute-haven’t I seen you before? Weren’t you part of the environmental action group protesting the Adirondack Spa development last summer?”
“That was me! Laura Rayfield.” She held out her hand and grinned as Clare shook it. Clare pulled her a little away from the sofa.
“So what happened?” Clare asked.
The nurse sighed. “I think Dr. Rouse overreacted to Deb’s antivaccination crusade. He’s been under tremendous stress lately, and everything seems to set him off. Thank God he didn’t grab his gun when she came charging in here.”
“You have a gun? At the clinic?”
“Al has a gun. In his desk.” She made a face. “It makes him feel safer. We’ve had a few break-ins, addicts looking for Oxy, stuff like that. Me, I think you’re more likely to shoot yourself than an intruder.”
“Have you talked to him? About his stress?”
“I told him the best thing to do would be to schedule a couple of evening meetings where he could ease anybody’s fears about vaccinations, but does he listen to me? Not hardly. He’s always practiced by the ‘Me doctor, you patient’ model, and now he’s got women coming in and questioning him about their kids’ immunizations, and about flu shots, and this, that, and the other thing.”
“Is that bad?”
“Hell no. But Al still thinks he’s living in a world where a white coat makes you bulletproof and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
Clare reflexively reached back and twisted her hair more tightly into its knot. “Last summer, I saw you hauled off getting the word out about the dangers of PCBs. How come you’re not helping Debba spread the alarm about this vaccination thing?”
“Because, unlike the known link between PCBs and cancer, there’s not a shred of scientific evidence to back up the autism-vaccination connection.” Laura looked over to the sofa, where Debba had subsided into sharp, deep breaths. “Autism can be so cruel to a family. I can’t blame parents for searching for something, anything, to explain how their perfectly normal one-year-old grows into a child trapped inside his own mind. It’s like the changelings in a fairy tale. You know, where the baby starts out healthy and is replaced by a sickly imposter? Except nowadays, instead of saying ‘Fairies stole my son,’ parents are crying that mercury-contaminated vaccines did the deed.” She shook her head, thumping her braid along her back. “If I thought that were true, I’d be breaking into warehouses to destroy any stockpiles myself.”
“But you don’t blame Debba for what she’s been doing.”
“I don’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s wrong. And she’s wasting her time fighting a war that doesn’t need to be won.” She squeezed Clare’s hand. “I’d better get back there. I know he sounded in fine fettle, but Al was really shaken up when she came at him like that.”
Clare lifted a hand in parting and turned back to the sofa. She shucked off her heavy parka and draped it over the back of one of a pair of orange plastic chairs appropriated from the waiting room. She dragged the chair over to Debba and plopped down, flashing a smile at Kevin Flynn, who was looking even younger than his twenty-one years this morning. Then she touched Debba’s hands, twisting together beneath the steel shine of the handcuffs.
“Debba, tell me about your kids.” The woman looked up. “How old are they? What are their names?”
“Um, I have two. Skylar, he’s my son, he’s six. And Whitley’s my little girl. She’s three and a half.”
“Where are they right now?”
“At my mother’s house. We all live there. I moved in a few years ago when Jeremy left us.” Debba drew a deep breath. “We’ve never had any problems before. He made his support payments, he got his visits with Whitley, and other than that he left us alone.”
“No visits with Skylar?”
Debba shook her head. “No. Jeremy couldn’t handle being a father to an autistic kid. He divorced me when Whitley was a baby. He was dead sure that she’d turn out to be like her brother.”
“That’s terrible!” Kevin Flynn’s outburst made both women look over at him. He reddened. “I mean, a guy turning his back on his handicapped kid and his baby.”
Debba nodded. “Your preaching to the choir here.”
“So why is he suddenly set on taking full custody of both the children?” Clare asked.
Debba clenched her fists. The handcuffs clicked. “He always wanted to institutionalize Skylar. After it was obvious that Whitley was… normal, he used to bring it up every now and again. Said it would give me more time for her. The implication being, of course, that time spent on Skylar was wasted. But he never said anything about taking her himself.” She pulled her arms apart, watching as the handcuffs dug into her flesh.
Clare laid her hands over Debba’s. “Stop it. Hurting yourself isn’t going to help your kids, any more than hurting Dr. Rouse will.”
“I just don’t know how I’m going to fight him. It’s not like I’ve got the money to hire a decent attorney. Or any attorney. God. My mom said I ought to give up my art and get a real job.”
Clare’s mouth quirked up in a one-sided smile. “My mom said I ought to give up flying helicopters and get a real job. Then I became a priest. Now she wishes I had the army job back.”
Debba smiled a ghostly version of the smile Clare had seen on her last Thursday.
Clare interlaced her fingers and pressed her hands against her chin. “I know a good lawyer who could help you. She works part time from her home.”
“You don’t understand. When I say I don’t have the money, I mean I don’t have any money. At least if I’m charged with assault, the state will get me a lawyer for free.”
Kevin Flynn nodded. “That’s right.”
“I think she’ll waive her usual fee. She owes me a favor.”
“What did you do? Forgive her all her sins?”
Clare thought of Karen Burns’s face as she held Cody after the month-old baby had been rescued from drowning. “I helped her when she and her husband were trying to adopt their baby boy. If you’ll let me, I’ll set up a meeting.”
There was a knock on the door, and Russ entered. He reached behind his back and unsnapped the handcuff key from his belt. “Deborah Clow,” he said, kneeling down to unlock her, “you’re free to go.”
“What?” Kevin and Debba spoke at the same time.
“You talked to Dr. Rouse,” Clare said. She t
ried not to sound like a teacher whose protégé has done something terribly clever.
“I talked to Dr. Rouse,” he agreed.
“And he’s not pressing any charges? I threatened to kill him, for God’s sake. I nearly smashed up his examination room.”
Russ put a hand on his knee and levered himself up. “I’m glad to hear you can appreciate the seriousness of what you did today.” He hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. “Dr. Rouse has been extremely generous in not pressing charges. Seeing as how he’s willing to let the assault and criminal threatening go, I’m willing to take a pass on resisting arrest. But.” He stabbed toward Debba with one finger. “I’ve told Dr. Rouse that if he wants to swear out a restraining order against you I’ll support his motion before the judge.”
Debba was very still. Clare suspected she had never considered herself as the sort of woman another person needed a restraining order against.
“And restraining order or no, I don’t want to see you within two blocks of the clinic or anywhere near Dr. Rouse. In fact, if you so much as jaywalk in the next few months, I’ll haul you in and see if some jail time will help you to think before you act.” He hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets. “Are you going to be okay to drive yourself home? If you’re feeling too shaky, Officer Flynn here will be glad to give you a ride.”
“I… I…” Looking back and forth from Russ to Kevin to Clare, Debba started to cry again.
“Yeah, I thought so. Kevin, take this lady home, make sure she gets in safe, and come back to fetch me.”
“Yes sir.”
Clare grabbed her parka and made to follow Kevin and Debba out the ladies’ lounge door. Russ snagged her by the arm. “Reverend? A word?”
“Busted,” she said under her breath.
He crossed his arms. “Not that I don’t have the greatest respect for your people skills, but next time you see me talking a potentially dangerous person down, stay the hell out of it. Okay?”
“Debba Clow was not potentially dangerous.”
“Yes. She was. And you’re just going to have to yield to my more extensive experience on this.” He pulled his glasses off and rubbed them against his uniform shirt. “There’s a certain look. Don’t ask me to describe it. I just know it when I see it. Someone goes over the line and is willing-is going to do something scary.” He replaced his glasses. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Oh! Mrs. Marshall!” She whirled and banged through the door. Russ followed. “I completely forgot about her.” She rattled down the stairs. “Mrs. Marshall? Are you-”
“Here I am, dear.” The elderly woman came out of the office, still in her Republican cloth coat and velvet beret. “I didn’t know what was going on, but I thought I had best stay out of the way.”
Clare ignored Russ’s pointed look.
“Is everyone okay? There was a young woman crying as she left.”
“Everyone’s fine,” Russ answered. “There was a little excitement, but no one was hurt.”
“Mrs. Marshall, this is Chief Van Alstyne. Russ, this is Mrs. Henry Marshall, one of my vestry.”
Russ nodded. “I believe you’re on our drive-by list, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Yes, I am.” She looked at Clare. “The police department comes around to check up on us old ladies during the winter months.”
“I like to think of you as women of a certain age.” He smiled at Mrs. Marshall. He had a breathtakingly charming smile when he used it. “And we also have a few gentlemen on our list as well. Folks who live by themselves. Did you come by for a checkup?” His voice sounded doubtful.
“No, Clare and I came to deliver some bad news to Allan Rouse in person.” There was a noise from the second floor and they all looked up. “Although perhaps this isn’t the best time.”
“Mrs. Marshall runs a trust that’s been giving money to the clinic for years,” Clare explained. “She’s decided to dissolve it and sink the principal into the repairs at St. Alban’s.”
“I’d have to agree with you then, Mrs. Marshall. I don’t think now is the time to tell Dr. Rouse his funding is getting cut.”
There was another noise upstairs. It sounded like someone stomping back and forth. Mrs. Marshall pinched her fuchsia-colored lips together. “Tomorrow, then. Clare, I think I’ll just powder my nose and then we can go.”
Clare nodded. She and Russ stood silent while Mrs. Marshall made her way around the corner of the back hall, where an arrow under the universal male and female symbols pointed visitors to the bathrooms.
“So you found a way to get the money to fix your leaky roof,” he said when they were alone. His voice was neutral.
“It’s more than a leaky roof,” she said. She knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it. “It’s the roof, the stained-glass-window setting, there’s damage to the exterior wall, and we need new guttering to redirect the water away from the foundations. It’s the most expensive work St. Alban’s has undertaken since the ’93 parish hall restoration.”
“Don’t churches usually raise money from their members for this sort of thing?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” she burst out. “I wanted to apply for a couple of loans. But it turns out St. Alban’s is in hock too deep to take on any more debt. And it’ll take months and months to raise sufficient monies from a capital campaign. Maybe a year. We don’t have that kind of time. The repair work needs to begin now.”
He looked down at her, carefully, as if he was trying to understand her. “So you’re taking money away from the free clinic.”
She wanted to explain, to tell him all about Mrs. Marshall’s trust, and her family history, and the architectural heritage of St. Alban’s. But when it came down to it, those were all just excuses, meant to make her look better. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”
The thunk-thunk of Mrs. Marshall’s old-fashioned rubber-heeled snow boots interrupted anything he might have said. “Ready to go, dear?” the old woman said.
“Yes.” Clare fished in her pockets for her gloves.
Mrs. Marshall took her arm. “It looks like I’ve wasted your morning, dragging you down here for nothing.”
Clare met Russ’s bright blue eyes, then let her gaze slide away. “It wasn’t for nothing,” she said. “There’s always time to deliver bad news.”
Chapter 8
NOW
Wednesday, March 15
Clare had installed one of those large read-it-from-inside-your-house thermometers on the high fence separating her rectory drive from the tiny parking lot behind the church. She didn’t know why she had done it, really. To torment herself about the miserable weather in this miserable, godforsaken part of the world. She read the dial face now, as she stood in her kitchen, waiting for the AAA guy to show up and jump-start her car. Fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. That was, of course, without the windchill.
The phone rang. She lunged for it, hoping that it was the AAA dispatch, calling her back to say the road-service truck was on its way.
“Hello?”
“Hello, dear. It’s Mrs. Marshall. You’re still at home.”
Clare steadied the coat tree beside the door, rocking from her dash for the phone. “My car won’t start. I’ve called AAA, but they told me there were cars stalled all over the area and it would be forty-five minutes to an hour. I’m sorry, I should have rung you first thing…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what, I’ll head over to Allan Rouse’s house, and if you still want to come, you can meet me there.”
“Absolutely. Tell me how to find it.” Clare grabbed a pen out of her junk drawer and jotted down Mrs. Marshall’s directions on the back of a Niagara Mohawk power bill. After assuring Mrs. Marshall that she would drive carefully and watch out for black ice, she hung up. The phone hung on the wall between her kitchen door and window, beneath an ecclesiastical calendar with all the saints’ feasts and commemorations delineated in bold black print. The first day of spring, bright in red lettering, was only a week away. She glanced
out the window again at the heaps of ice-crusted snow threatening to close off her narrow drive completely. It was never going to be spring. The sooner she reconciled herself to that fact, the calmer she’d be.
The phone rang. She snagged it, a bit less hopeful than last time.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Karen Burns. I called over at the church, but Lois said you were still at home.”
“I’m waiting for AAA to come and start my car.”
“My sympathies. You really ought to think about getting a winter rat with a monster battery.” Karen and her husband, Geoffrey, owned a Land Rover, a Saab, and a beat-up little Honda for tooling around in the slush and salt. Clare refrained from pointing out that she could barely afford one car, let alone two. Karen went on, “The reason I’m calling is that I’ve made an appointment to see Debba Clow, and I wondered if you wanted to sit in, since you’re counseling her.”
“I’m not-” Clare paused. Of course she was counseling Debba. “Sure. When is it?”
“Noon. It’s trickier for her to haul her kids around, so we’re meeting over at her house. I’m going to bring Cody. Sort of a legal strategy session slash play date.”
Crud. There went her lunch with Russ. “Sure, I’ll be there. Did she give you any details about what happened at the clinic?”
“Not as many as you did when you asked me to represent her. I got the impression she’s still pretty pissed off at the old guy, but doesn’t want to admit it.”
“I’m going over to Dr. Rouse’s house this morning, as soon as my car’s resurrected.”
“Boy, you do get around, don’t you?”
“Mrs. Marshall is going to tell him about using her trust for St. Alban’s building fund. Geoff told you about that, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, I thought that as the official representative of the church, I ought to be there when he got the bad news. Anyway, I’ll try to sound him out as to whether he’s going to go ahead with a restraining order against Debba.”
“Great. We’ll see you later, then.”
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