He looked down at the angry baby kicking in the crook of his arm. “He’s such a responsible kid, that’s part of the problem.” Clare found her footing again. Her toes curled over the edge of the tie as she lifted her other leg and shook the boot free. It hit one of the ties and fell off her foot. A moment later, she heard a splash.
“Give her the baby, Vaughn, and let’s get out of here. Your son needs you.” Russ’s voice sounded much closer now. She could feel him, radiating strength and reassurance, almost close enough to reach back and touch.
Vaughn drew a deep breath, as if savoring the taste of the air. “Wes is the fifth generation of my family to attend West Point, did I tell you that?”
Clare nodded. “Yes, sir, you did.”
He looked into her eyes, soberly, measuring. “It’s a good thing to live as a soldier.” With a shrug and a twist of his arms, he tossed Cody over the parapet.
Russ shouted, “Get down, Clare!” as the parka tumbled from her arms. She went over the side before she had a chance to think about it, her shins scraping the iron, the wind tearing up her eyes and blinding her, and then she was under the water, and it was cold, cold beyond any definition of cold, burning her skin like acid. She followed her bubbles up to the pale sunshine, broke the surface, unable to breathe, the shock of it seizing her lungs. She heard yelling, a motor gunning, shots. It was hard to think, impossible to focus. She couldn’t see Cody. She gulped in air with a sob, forcing her chest to work, went under again. The boat motor throbbed through her nerves. Her body felt like one huge tooth ache. She spiraled through the clear water. There was a flash of white ahead, but when she broke surface, it was a clump of snow and ice. Someone was yelling her name. She went under again, the ache intensifying, although she couldn’t have imagined it could get any worse.
She saw him. Floating so near the surface his ice-blue sleeper was dappled with sunlight. She stroked through the water, kicking against the drag of her skirt, time slipping past her like bubbles, until she reached the tiny form. She surfaced again, hauling Cody up with her, holding his head out of the water one-handed while she tread in place. “Here!” she screamed. “I’ve got him! Here!”
The sound of the boat was everywhere, but she was still surprised when she turned and it was there; cutting engines, sliding alongside her. Hands reached out, so many hands, and she held up Cody and let him be whisked out of view. She reached for the side, but she was too weak to hold on. More hands grasped her, grabbed her arms, and she was hauled in like a fish, flopping and twitching on the bottom of the boat until someone tossed a thermal blanket over her and rolled her in it. Through the press of parkas, she saw a man half-dressed in diving gear resuscitating Cody, his mouth covering half the baby’s face.
“Breathe.”
“For Christ’s sake, take us over to the shore so we can pick up the chief, he’s going to freeze to death.”
“Get on that radio to County Hospital, tell ’em we’re coming in with possible hypothermias.”
“Miss, I have another blanket. Can you get your clothes off under there?”
“What about the perp’s body? Are we fishing him out?”
Cody’s tiny fist jerked in the air. The diver pulled away, rolling the baby onto his side. Cody coughed, vomited up a stream of water, and began to cry. Everyone cheered except Clare, who squeezed her eyes shut against hot tears.
The boat bumped and scraped against rock. She opened her eyes in time to see Russ wading through the water. The boat tipped hard to one side as he heaved himself in. “Come back here, Chief,” the voice beside her said. “I’ve got a blanket for you. Jeez, you tore the hell out of your pants, didn’t you? What the hell were you thinking of? We had them.”
Clare focused on the man who had been helping her, and recognized Kevin Flynn. The engine kicked in again, pulling them steadily away from the shore, gaining speed as they motored downstream.
“Shove it over, Kevin,” Russ said, his voice thick. The young officer handed him a blanket and carefully shifted down the bench. Russ wrapped himself from the waist down and sat heavily. “Lyle, you notify the hospital we’re coming in?”
“I sure did, Chief.”
“Call the staties, let ’em know we’re going to need a diving team and a water search to recover Fowler’s body.”
“What happened?” Clare asked, her teeth clicking together.
“You mean after you did your swan dive? Fowler fired on me.”
“Oh, no. Oh no. Were you the one who—”
“No, my gun was still holstered. Mark was my backup. He’s a damn good shot.” He shook his head. “Fowler was hit. He went between the ties.” He looked at her, his eyes so deep she thought she could dive in and touch the bottom of him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“For Fowler or for Mark?” He raised a hand. “No, don’t tell me. I know. For both of them.” He took off his glasses and wiped them on a corner of the blanket. “When I saw you go over the edge like that . . .” He shook his head. “I took the fast route down by sliding down that goddamn slate embankment. My ass is going to feel that one for a month. ’Scuse my French.” He threw his arm around Clare and pulled her blanket-wrapped form tightly to his side. “Jesus Christ, Clare, what were you thinking of? Do you have any idea how fast you can die in water that cold? We had a diver standing by, for chrissakes.”
“I didn’t know it was going to be that cold,” she said, shaking uncontrollably against him. She jerked her chin toward the squalling baby. “It was worth it.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was.” He smiled a bit. Then he started to laugh softly.
“What?”
“Damn, I sure had you pegged when I said you jumped in feet-first without thinking . . .”
CHAPTER 31
At twilight, the small parking area behind St. Alban’s was already filled. Well, he should have expected that on Christmas Eve. Russ parked in the lot across the street, collected his package, and trudged across Elm toward the Gothic double doors hung with wreaths. The pavilion in the square was glowing with Christmas lights and the shining windows of the last stores open, and for a moment he could have been back in 1962, when everything in his world was safe and understandable. Where businesses never closed and marriages were forever and no one ever died.
He shook his head at his sentimentality and hauled on one of the elaborately cast bronze door pulls. Inside the church, his glasses fogged over, blinding him. The smell of pine and beeswax filled the shadowy air. From the choir stalls a soloist was singing, then stopping, going back and repeating her phrase.
“Hey. Chief Van Alstyne. Are you here to help, too?”
He popped his glasses back on. A startlingly well-scrubbed Kristen McWhorter faced him, carrying a box of tall white candles.
“Kristen. Hi. I’m surprised to see you here.”
She jiggled the box. “Reverend Clare talked me into helping with the decorating. I’m sprigging the candles. Don’t ask.”
He grinned. “Okay. How is everything?”
“Pretty good. The funerals were hard. Hard to get through. But knowing what happened to her helped. I still haven’t spoken with Wes Fowler. Which I can understand. But I have been seeing Cody.” She smiled. “The Burnses have asked me to be a godmother, isn’t that cool? He’s going to be baptized here in January.”
“That’s very cool, yeah. I’m glad for you.” He glanced around the church. A woman was twining greenery around huge standing candelabras and an elderly man was wedging votive lights into recesses in the windowsills. “Where’s the Reverend?”
“I heard her muttering something about coffee. I’d check in her office.”
The hallway was dim and quiet. He knocked on her door frame. “Anyone in?”
“Russ! Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. If you’re here for the seven o’clock service, you’re a few hours early.” Clare rose from one of her odd-looking admiral’s chairs, elegant in a tailored black blouse and long skirt. “Let
me get you a cup of coffee.” She poured from her Thermos into a Virginia Seminary mug. The coffee was hot and sweet and tasted of cinnamon. He dropped his package on the shabby love seat and laid his parka over it before sitting down.
“I meant to call when I saw the notice about Fowler’s funeral in the paper.”
“I didn’t officiate. I asked Clifton Whiting from St. Ann’s in Saratoga. I thought my presence would be more of a hurt than a help.” She looked into her coffee. “I can’t help but think that if I’d been a little more on the ball—”
“You could have stopped Fowler from destroying himself? Someone once told me you can’t take responsibility for everyone around you. Seems like a pretty smart observation.”
She smiled crookedly at him. “I should have had you around to put in a good word for me when the vestry called me on the carpet to explain what had been going on. I don’t know who shocked them more, me or Vaughn Fowler.”
He slipped off his glasses and polished them on his scarf. “If you need me to let them know what a genuine help you were—”
“No, no. They just need time to readjust their worldview. I’m taking advantage of the confusion to push forward my young mothers’ mentoring program. For which, by the way, I have the support of the Burnses, who have forgiven me for narcing on Geoff’s drunk driving episode.”
“Let me get my glasses back on. Whenever I think about Geoff as a father, I get a headache.”
“It’s given him a sense of humor. He told me they were signing Cody up for infant swim classes.” Her eyes glinted. “At least, I think he was trying to be funny.”
He almost snorted coffee out his nose. He put the mug down. “I’m really here to give you this.” He pulled the wide, foil-wrapped package from beneath his coat. “Happy Holidays.”
“For me? You shouldn’t have!” She tore into the paper eagerly. “Oh, Russ.” She started laughing. “Thank you. They’re just what I needed.” She held up the waterproof, insulated, chain-tread-soled boots. “How did you know?”
He laughed. “Lucky guess?” She turned the boots back and forth, admiring them.
“I love them.” She dropped them into the box. “I’ll wear them tonight after midnight mass.”
“It must get crazy for you on Christmas Eve. Everyone else is having a holiday and you’re working your tail off.”
“Like a cop.”
“Like a cop.”
“It easy for me to lose all sense of what I’m here for and turn into this grumpy, harried martinet, obsessing with getting everything done right and on time. That’s why I’m hiding out in my office.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, no, I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since they hustled you off to get your backside dressed at the hospital.” The last light of the sunset was flooding the room, from windows and mirrors. Her hair, caught up in its usual twist, had already come loose, strands the color of gingerbread and fire floating around her face.
“Seems like a long time, yeah.”
“I’ve really missed having you to talk with.” Her words hung in the air.
“Me, too.” There was a long pause. He had a sudden, lung-constricting conviction that coming here had been a mistake, that he had to leave right away, had to climb back into his truck and go home. “I ought to be going.”
“Oh.” She looked at the coffee mug in her hand. “Of course.” She placed it carefully on the desk. “Thank you. Thank you for my favorite present.” They both stood. She reached out and they clasped hands, squeezing hard. She smiled brightly. “Merry Christmas, Russ.”
He pulled her to him without conscious thought and she came, settling against him, their arms wrapped around each other. He held her pressed tightly against his heart. “Merry Christmas,” he said into her hair. It smelled of beeswax and cinnamon.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were very large.
“Clare,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Clare . . .”
She shook her head. “No.”
He touched her face. She closed her eyes and for a moment, pressed her cheek into his palm. Then she opened her eyes and stepped backwards, breaking his hold. He reached for her. She threw up both hands, a barricade against him. “Leave. Now. Go home to your wife.”
He let his hands drop, heavy and useless. “I wouldn’t—”
“Yes, you would. And God help me, so would I. Go. Please.”
He nodded, turned, walked away, through the dim hall, through the scent of pine and beeswax, through the haunting voice of the soloist, singing. “Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow. In the bleak midwinter, long ago.”
Around the square, the remaining shops were closing, employees chattering down the sidewalks, last-minute shoppers slipping and sliding under the weight of bags and boxes. The fuzzy candy canes and reindeer, the fat lightbulbs, everything the same as it always was, as it always had been. Everything the same. Everything different. Everything.
He climbed into his truck and headed home.
Read on for an excerpt from
Julia Spencer-Fleming’s next mystery:
A Fountain Filled with Blood
Now available in hardcover from St. Martin’s
Minotaur!
The yahoos came by just after the dinner party let out. A few young punks—three or four—picked out as streaks of white in the cab and bed of an unremarkable-looking pickup. Emil Dvorak was tucking a bottle of wine under his arm and reaching to shake his hosts’ hands when he heard the horn, haloowing down Route 121 like a redneck hunting cry, and the truck flashed into view of the inn’s floodlights.
“Faggots!” Several voices screamed. “Burn in hell!” More obscene slurs were swallowed up in the night as the truck continued past. From their run in the back, the Inn’s dogs began barking in response, high-pitched and excited.
“Goddamnit,” Ron Handler said.
“Did you see the license plate this time?” Stephen Obrowski asked.
His partner shook his head. “Too fast. Too dark.”
“Has this happened before?” Emil shifted the bottle under his other arm. The Inn’s outdoor spotlight left him feeling suddenly exposed, his car brilliantly illuminated, his hosts’ faces clearly visible, as his must have been. His hand, he noticed, was damp. “Have you reported it?”
“It started a little after we opened for the season,” Steve said. “Once a week, maybe less. We’ve told the police. The Inn’s on the random patrol list now.”
“Not that that helps,” Ron said. “The cops have better things to do than to catch gay-bashers out cruising for a good time. The only reason we got a few drive-bys in a patrol car is that the Inn is bringing in the all-mighty tourist dollar.”
“Tourism keeps Millers Kill afloat,” Emil said, “but Chief Van Alstyne’s a good man. He wouldn’t tolerate that trash no matter what business they’re targeting.”
“I better call the station and let them know we’ve been harrassed again. Thank God our guests have already retired.” Ron squeezed Emil’s upper arm. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry dinner had to end on such a bad note.” He disappeared behind the Inn’s ornate double door.
Steve peered up the road. “Are you going to be okay getting back home? I don’t like the idea of you all alone on the road with those thugs out there.”
Emil spread his arms. “Look at me. I’m a middle-aged guy driving a Chrysler with M.D. plates. What could be more mainstream?” He dropped his hand on Steve’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “I’ll be fine. Anyone comes after me, I’ll break his head open with this fine Chardonnay.”
“Don’t you dare. That bottle’s worth more than you on the open market.”
Emil laughed as they made their good-nights. Tucking the bottle under the passenger seat of his LeBaron convertible, he considered putting the top back up. He sighed. He knew he was getting old when a couple of drunken kids yelling out of the d
arkness made him this nervous. To hell with them. It wasn’t worth a twenty-minute struggle with the roof or missing fresh air blowing around him on a hot June night.
The high-Victorian architecture of the inn dwindled behind him as he drove toward home. Route 121 was two country lanes bordered on one side by Millers Kill, the river that gave the town its name, and by dairy farms and corn fields on the other. In the dark of the new moon, the maples and sycamores lining the sides of the road were simply shades of gray on black, so the round outline of his headlights, picking out the violent green of the summer leaves, made him think of scuba diving in the Carribean, black blinkers around his peripheral vision, gloom and color ahead.
Twin blurs of red and white darted into view and for a second his mind saw coralfish. He blinked, and they resolved themselves into rear lights. Backing into the road, slewing sidewise. Christ! He slammed on his brakes and instinctively jerked the wheel to the right, knowing a heartbeat too late that was wrong, wrong, wrong as the car sawed around in a swooping, tail-forward circle and crunched to a stop with a jolt that whipsawed Dvorak’s head from the steering wheel to his seat.
The smell of the Chardonnay was everywhere, sickening in excess. Steve would kill him for breaking that bottle. His ears rung. He drew a deep breath and caught it, stopped by the ache in his chest. Contusion from the shoulder restraint. He touched the back of his neck. Probably cervical strain as well. Behind him, some awful modern rap song thumped over a gaggle of voices. He turned off the engine. Better go see if anyone needed any medical attention before he took down the driver’s insurance and sued him into next week. The idiot.