I Shall Not Want

  He caught her other hand. Forced her arms behind her back so easily it seemed as if it were her idea, as if she were stretching invisible wings, readying herself to fly. She bumped into his chest.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” He bent his head toward her.

  “We”—she swallowed—“we haven’t decided anything yet. We haven’t come to any sort of understanding.”

  He laughed, a low sound that she had only heard once or twice before. “Clare. We decided everything about three days after we met.”

  She could smell him, salt and sun and something unique to him. She felt dizzy. You know when you’re captured? Hardball Wright asked. When you give up control in your head. “Russ,” she got out, “I don’t think—”

  “Good. Keep on not thinking.” He kissed her, kissed her right down to her foundations, kissed her until she was a cathedral burning: lead melting, saints shattering, not a stone left on stone. He lifted his hands, hers, pressed her against the bookcase, interlocking their fingers and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss and the edge of the shelves bit into the back of her hands, hanging there with his sweet weight against her, nailed to the wood by her own reckless desire.

  Then his hands were on her face, her jaw, sliding through her hair, plucking out the pins keeping it in place, tracing the edge of her collar. “How does this come off?” he asked, his voice like dusk against her ear.

  “Uhn.” Thinking was like sweeping through cobwebs. “It buttons. In the back.”

  The rub of his knuckle, a tug, and her collar came free.

  “So it does,” he said. His lips slid over her neck and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, literally couldn’t breathe at the feel of his teeth and tongue. She let her head roll back, exposing her throat, while what passed for her brain wondered if they could make it to the loveseat in her office. The lumpy loveseat. In her office. In her church.

  In her church.

  She shoved him away. “Stop it,” she said. She could barely speak. “We’re not doing an Abelard and Héloïse.”

  “What?” He sounded like her, dazed and winded.

  “We’re not doing this here.” She inhaled. Eyed him where he stood, braced against the desk. Hair askew—had she done that?—eyes hot, his chest heaving as if he had been running the Independence Day 5K.

  “Okay,” he said. “Your house.” He moved toward her again.

  “No! Stop!”

  “What?” His face creased with frustration, but he stopped all the same. “Not in the church. I got it. It’s sacrilegious. But don’t tell me there’s a problem with your house because it’s the rectory.”

  “The problem’s not my house.” She rubbed her face. Wished she had some cold water she could splash on. Or dunk her head in. “The problem’s you. And me.”

  “Oh, for—not that again. Look, let me point something out to you, okay? For two and a half, three years now, I never touched you. I didn’t kiss you, I didn’t”—his hands flexed as if he were grabbing hold of her—“I didn’t do anything. And let me tell you, it wasn’t for lack of thinking about it! Jesus, I used to go for weeks where I swear the only thing I could think about was having you. But I didn’t do anything about it.” He stepped closer. “I exercised self-control.” He enunciated every word. “Because I was married.”

  He jammed one hand through his hair, making it stick up even farther.

  “Now I can’t keep my hands off you. Doesn’t that tell you I’ve”—he cast around for the right word—“I would’ve never let myself while Linda was alive. Never.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why the hell can’t we work with what we have? I love you. I want you. Why can’t you trust that to be enough?”

  “Because it wasn’t enough before!”

  He looked dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about last winter. I broke it off with you for the sake of your marriage. Do you have any idea what that felt like? To just give up everything and walk away?”

  “Of course I do. You think it was any easier for me?”

  “Yes! I do! You had someone you loved to console you. I had nothing! Then, when you found out Linda had been murdered, you came crawling right back—”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “—looking for help and understanding and sympathy and what all, using me like an emotional life-support system, to hell with whether it was peeling me raw or not—”

  “Using you?”

  “I gave, and I gave, and I gave, and what did I get in return? When that bitch of a state police investigator accused me of murder, you believed her!”

  “I did not!”

  “You did so! I was there! I saw you!”

  “Christ, Clare, I thought about the possibility for thirty seconds. You’re going to hang me up to dry for thirty seconds? I’m sorry I’m not so perfect and all-giving as you are.”

  “You see? It’s all about you. Again. When does it get to be about me, Russ? When does it get to be about what I need?” Her eyes teared up, but the words kept coming, as if she had tapped some vat of acid and now it had to gush out until it ran dry. “I killed for you. I killed a man to save you. And then I had to turn around and let you go again, and you know what? I know your wife died. I know it was the worst moment of your life. But I was having the worst moment of my life, too, and you just turned your back on me. You rejected me, everything I had to give and everything I needed. We always said we were holding on, and you let go. You . . . let . . . me . . . fall.” She was crying freely now, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. She opened her mouth and found herself saying, “I hate you for that.”

  She had reached the bottom of it. Her head felt emptied out, except for the echo of Deacon Aberforth’s words, Are you angry with your police chief?

  And her reply. Of course not.

  Russ was pale beneath his tan. He opened his mouth. Shut it. Scrubbed his hand over his eyes. He turned away from her, then jerked and spun back around, and she knew with a sick certainty that the words you turned your back on me had been driven into his ear like a spike.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  His phone rang. He slapped his pocket, stricken. She waved one hand. “Go ahead,” she said. He checked the number. Flipped the phone open.

  “Van Alstyne”—he coughed—“Van Alstyne here.” She watched him as he listened. Who said getting everything out into the open was a good idea? She didn’t feel better, or healthier, or more honest. She just felt dirty. And empty.

  “Aw, shit,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Where?” He nodded. “I’ll be right there.” He listened again. “Yeah. That’s fine.” He glanced at her. “No, I’ll tell her.”

  Fear stirred in her gut.

  “Yeah,” Russ said again. “ ’Bye.” He snapped the phone shut. Looked at her. “That was Lyle. Some kids were in the Cossayuharie Muster Field. They found Amado’s body.”

  VIII

  She followed in her own car. He could see her headlights behind him, bright against the tree-shrouded twilight of the mountain road. While he had been in St. Alban’s, getting his intestines handed to him on a steaming platter, the sun had set. That seemed appropriate. On the stereo, Bill Deasy sang Is it my curse, to always make the good things worse? He had bought the CD as a present for himself last Christmas, because the songs made him think of Clare.

  When had he started listening to music again?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything, it seemed. How the hell had he wound up gutting the only two women he’d ever loved? He ought to go home and tell his mom he hated her. Make it a perfect trifecta.

  From the high ground of the Muster Field, headlights, roof lights, portable lamps, and road flares blazed against the pale violet sky, as visible as the solstice fires or mountaintop beacons of ancient Scotland. He hoped the modern-day descendents of those Scots would ignore the call, or else his people would be d
ealing with an unholy mess of spectators and speculation.

  He parked his truck at the end of a line of vehicles crowding Route 137’s nonexistent shoulder. He spotted at least two SUVs with FIRE AND RESCUE tags. Lyle must have called for help in dealing with the traffic. They would need it. There were already more cars around than official personnel could account for.

  He stepped out as Clare pulled in ahead of him. He waited until she emerged from her Subaru. She had reattached her collar. She didn’t look at him. “Find whoever’s handing out those flares and put one in front of your car,” he said. She nodded. Walked past him, up the shadowy road. He reached for her as she went by, then dropped his hand. What the hell was he going to say to her, here and now? He shook his head.

  As soon as he stepped onto the field, he heard Lyle bellowing his name. Russ couldn’t see anything in the glare of light bars and headlights, but he headed for the sound. Past the rescue vehicle and the squad cars, the rear of the field spread in darkness, the black bulk of the two-hundred-year-old trees picked out against the star-glimmering sky. Heat lightning flickered over the western mountains. A pair of Maglites barely dented the gloom.

  “Over here!” Russ followed Lyle’s voice, to find the deputy chief struggling to set up one of the halogen site lamps while Kevin Flynn trained two flashlights on the contrary apparatus.

  “Kevin, what are you doing here? You’re not on tonight.” Russ reached for the lamppost and held it aloft so Lyle could unfold the base. “Where’s Noble?”

  “Lyle called me,” Kevin said. He sounded subdued, for a kid whose usual response to a major crime was “Whoopee!”

  “I sent Noble back to talk with the kids who found Esfuentes.” Lyle grunted as he wrestled the sectional flaps into position.

  “Instead of setting up the lights?” Russ crouched down and seized the battery pack. “You’re not working to your strengths, here, Lyle.”

  “I don’t want him near the body.” Lyle pressed one hand over Russ’s and, with the other, jammed the plug into the battery. The darkness exploded into white light, and all three men shielded their eyes.

  “He’s here?” Instinctively, Russ looked down to see if he was fouling evidence.

  Lyle gestured with his thumb. “By the stone wall.” He waved at Kevin. “Go get the next light.” The junior officer nodded and trotted back toward the squad car.

  Russ watched him go. A group of what looked to be civilians were rubbernecking near the road. He didn’t like it. “So. Not taken into the forest like the other two.”

  “No. This is different from the others.”

  “I’m not going to second-guess you,” Russ said, “but I’ve never had any problems with Noble mucking up the scene.” He dropped his voice. “Kevin’s working on overtime right now.”

  Lyle looked him in the eye. “It’s bad. Kevin can handle that. Noble can’t.”

  Russ’s mouth dried up. “Bad?”

  Lyle nodded.

  “Shit.” He took a step toward where Lyle had indicated, then stopped. “Let’s get the rest of the lights up. I don’t want to screw things up by stomping around in the dark.”

  A gust of cool wind rustled through the trees. “I hope to hell tonight’s not the night we finally get rain,” Lyle said. “We could use another officer. Tim and Duane both lit out after the Fourth.”

  “Call in Hadley Knox. She needs the O.T.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you and Kevin manage the next lamp? I want to talk to whoever found him.”

  Lyle tilted his head. Next to the ambulance, five or six people had gathered around Noble’s broad-shouldered form. “It was a carload of kids. Two couples. They’d had a few, and somebody got the bright idea to come up to the Muster Field and hunt for another body. Watched too many damn horror movies, if you ask me.” He glanced behind him, into the gloom. “They found what they came looking for.”

  “Not unless they got laid first.” Russ strode off toward the group. He saw a flash of black and white. Clare, talking to one of the young men. Another breeze lifted her hair, and he thought, It’s loose? and then he remembered pulling the pins out of her twist. The feel of her hair sliding through his fingers. A jolt of desire hit him, heavy and low, about as welcome as a kick in the head under the circumstances. He shook it off. Kept walking.

  Clare lifted her head, as if she had sensed him coming, and said something to the boy at her side. Anyone who didn’t know her would see a calm, caring, collected priest. He saw the taut line of her jaw and the strained expression in her eyes. There was another adult there as well, a fleshy soccer-dad type with his arm around a girl. At least one of the kids had had sense enough to call a parent.

  “Officer Entwhistle,” he said.

  Noble turned toward him. “Chief.” His relief was evident. The two girls’ faces were wet from crying, and one of the boys looked ready to toss his cookies any second. The father ping-ponged between consoling his daughter and glaring at the other young man, standing beside Clare. Russ guessed he was the daughter’s date. Fox-featured, he looked like he normally might enjoy mischief but was smart enough not to get too far in. Right now, he was just holding it together. Didn’t want to lose it in front of his girl. Well, Russ could identify with that.

  “Hi. Russ Van Alstyne.” Russ bypassed the dad and shook with Clare’s kid first. “I’m the chief of police.”

  The boy took his hand. “Hi. I’m—um, Colin Ellis.”

  Russ glanced at Clare for a second. “Any relation to Anne Vining-Ellis?”

  The boy nodded. “She’s my mom.”

  “She and Chris are on the way,” Clare said.

  Russ turned to Noble. “Officer Entwhistle, will you clear the rest of the onlookers from the area? And tell the traffic guys there’ll be some parents arriving.”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  The father stepped forward. “Can you take the kids’ statements and release them, please? I want to get my daughter out of here. She’s had one hell of a shock.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Clifford Sturdevant. This is my daughter Lauren.”

  Lauren snuffled something that might have been a greeting.

  “This is Kearney”—Clare indicated the queasy-looking boy—“and Meghan.” Meghan wiped her eyes, smearing blue mascara across her cheeks.

  “Why don’t you kids tell me what happened,” Russ said.

  “They were supposed to be at the—”

  Russ held up one hand. “I’d like to hear it in their own words, Mr. Sturdevant.”

  The story was pretty much what he expected from Lyle’s brief description. The two couples had been going to the Glen Drive-In, got to talking about the “Cossayuharie Killer,” and whipped each other up with dares until they had no choice but to go to the Muster Field at twilight. They had stumbled around—Russ got the impression they were looking for soft ground at this point—and through sheer dumb luck had run across the body. They fled back to Lauren’s car, where, after a short argument about driving away or not, they called 9-1-1, Sturdevant, and the Ellises. They hadn’t seen anyone else coming or going from the field.

  It was the Ellis boy who screwed up the courage to ask what they all must have been wondering. “Are we in trouble?”

  Russ eyed him. “Were you drinking?”

  The kid swallowed. “Yeah. Yes, sir. But not much. We had a six-pack.”

  “If I catch you drinking again, you will be in trouble. But I think this time I’ll let your parents deal with it.” Kearney looked relieved, Colin horrified.

  A flash of arriving headlights and another gust of wind caught Russ’s attention. He squinted in the glare. Clare glanced over, then at him. Questioning him without words. “The medical examiner,” he said.

  IX

  “Any objection to me taking Lauren and Meghan home now?” Sturdevant’s tone implied any objection would be overruled. The boys looked at each other. Russ figured they would eat their own tongues before admitting they wan
ted an adult to stay with them.

  “I’ll keep the boys company until the Ellises get here,” Clare said.

  He shot her a grateful look. “You’re free to go,” he told the girls. “Thanks for your cooperation. And thanks for keeping your heads and calling us right away.”

  Sturdevant was already dragging them off. Russ excused himself and bolted for the new headlights. It was indeed Dr. Scheeler, stepping out of his Scout in a suit that must have cost as much as a month’s rent in Cossayuharie.

  “I was having a romantic dinner at the Sagamore with a woman I had to beg for a date,” Scheeler said under his breath. “I hope to hell this is worth it.”

  A lean, tan brunette in a pink suit got out of the passenger side of the car. She wasn’t wearing anything under the jacket. No wonder Scheeler was pissed off. She crossed to the driver’s side. The pathologist handed her the keys. “I’m so sorry about this, Barb.” He glared at Russ.

  The woman smiled. Not happy, but good-natured. “Oh, Chief Van Alstyne and I are practically old friends. I’ll cut him some slack.” She was, Russ realized, the manager of the Algonquin Waters Resort. One of the last people to ever see Linda alive. “How are you?” she said, in a different tone. “I was so sorry to hear about your wife. It must have been terrible for you.”

  “Thank you. Yeah. It was,” he said for the seven hundredth time.

  Scheeler pulled his bag out of the back. Hot date or no, he was prepared. He helped the woman up into the driver’s seat and took his time retrieving his hand. “So. I’ll see you later, Barb?”

  She flashed him a killer grin. “If you want your SUV back.” Then she gunned the engine and was gone.

  “Day-um,” Scheeler said. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glowered at Russ again. “You better have found Amelia Earhart.”

  Russ started walking toward the back of the field. “Since when do doctors have trouble getting women?”

  “Pathology is not always the big turn-on some people assume it is,” Scheeler said, falling in beside him. “Plus, the pay sucks. Dermatology, that’s where the bucks are. A certificate in plastic surgery is like a license to print money. Hang on.”