To Darkness and to Death

  “Thank you.” He stepped past her.

  “May I take your coat?”

  He handed her his overcoat, his gaze traveling across her living room. The coffee table was entirely hidden by old copies of the Post-Star and stacks of books. Her running shoes and socks lay abandoned in front of the sofa, and one of the club chairs was occupied by a sweater and a bag of overdue videos.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you.” The words were out before she could stop them. Damn. She hated apologizing for the state of her house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  He coughed, a strangled sound that made her think of tubercular wards. “No, thank you. I trust this won’t take long.”

  She had the same sinking sensation she used to get when her CO called her into his office. She indicated the chairs and sofa, darting forward to kick her shoes out of sight and remove the video bag from the chair.

  She sat. He sat opposite her.

  “The bishop asked me to speak with you, before his visit, on a serious matter. He didn’t feel he could give it the attention it deserves during his visit tomorrow.” He smiled thinly. “Between the Eucharist, the luncheon, the evensong, and the reception afterward, you’ve got him quite swept off his feet.”

  “I’m sorry,” she began automatically. A serious matter. Her heart sank. There were almost too many possibilities. In the two years she had been at St. Alban’s, she had wound up in the newspaper or on television far too many times. She viewed it as an unfortunate consequence of her work as a minister. Russ, on the other hand, referred to it as hanging around with losers and butting into police business. Perhaps the bishop agreed.

  Aberforth waved off her apology. “The bishop would rather this not get around any more than it has. It’s better for all concerned if we deal with the situation quietly.” He leaned forward. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we don’t want to be giving any of the other clergy in the diocese any ideas.”

  There was another possibility, of course. She didn’t want to imagine it; the thought skittered around like a mouse trying to hide in the dark. What if gossip had reached the bishop’s ears? Gossip about her and Russ.

  Oh, God, she thought. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She tried to settle her churning stomach with the thought that the bishop couldn’t know anything, that he couldn’t have anything other than rumors and innuendo.

  “This bishop understands that a new priest, untested and untried, can make mistakes.”

  Who told him? One of the vestry? One of her congregation? She felt another nauseating lurch. What if it were Linda Van Alstyne? Oh, God, what if she’d been followed around by a private investigator and there were photos of Russ coming in and out of the rectory, of them lunching together, of her walking at his side along dark streets?

  “It’s easy, without proper guidance, to believe you’re making decisions out of compassion. Or that your decisions only affect the people involved. But,” he smiled his thin smile again, “as you can see, nothing stays secret in a small town. And every individual congregation, whether in Millers Kill or in Manhattan, is a small town.”

  But still. There was nothing to prove that they had slept together, because they hadn’t. The times they had touched, over the past two years, she could name, date, describe, because they were so very rare. And precious. She could bull her way through this, because she had done . . . nothing . . . wrong.

  Aberforth’s black eyes searched hers. “I can see you’re troubled. Please. I’m not here to punish. I’m here as the shepherd, seeking the straying lamb.”

  She flashed on a picture of Aberforth scooping her up in his scarecrow arms, carrying her bleating back to the fold.

  “So, I’d like to hear in your own words why you broke your vows of obedience to your bishop and performed a”—his mouth worked as if the words inside had a bad taste—“ceremony of union between two homosexuals.”

  Clare stared at him. “What?”

  “Why you gave the church’s blessing to an invalid union.”

  She knew she must look poleaxed, but she couldn’t help it. “What are you talking about?”

  His face collapsed into deep folds as he frowned. “Ms. Fergusson, feigning ignorance is unbecoming. The bishop has received reliable information that this past January, you celebrated a public ceremony wherein two men exchanged vows with one another. Whether you call it a blessing or a ceremony of union, it—”

  “You mean Emil and Paul’s service? That’s what this is all about?” She started laughing in relief.

  “Ms. Fergusson! This is hardly the response I was hoping for!”

  She bent over, laughing and gasping for breath. “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she managed. “It’s just . . . Ithought . . .” She pulled herself together, sniffing and wiping her eyes. Father Aberforth was looking at her as if she were the scriptural woman possessed by unclean spirits. “I apologize,” she said, under control now. “I . . . when . . . it was the stress.”

  “Ms. Fergusson, are you aware that the bishop has stated explicitly that no such ceremonies will be performed in his diocese?”

  She folded her hands. “Yes, I am.”

  “And you did, in your ordination, promise to, and I quote, ‘obey your bishop and other ministers who may have authority over you and your work’?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He sat back and let the words hang in the air. “Well?” he said finally.

  “When I performed the ceremony of union, it was at a local inn, not at St. Alban’s. I didn’t mark down the union in our church register, and I made sure both of them knew I was there as a friend, not as a representative of the Episcopal Church.”

  “Were you wearing your stole?”

  The long, scarflike symbol of her priesthood. “Yes,” she said.

  “Did you pronounce God’s blessing over them?”

  “Yes. But you don’t have to be ordained to bless—”

  “Don’t equivocate with me, Ms. Fergusson. You were acting as a priest of the diocese of Albany.”

  “Father Aberforth, I interviewed both the men involved, as I would any candidates for marriage. They had been together ten years. No one could claim they were rushing into it ‘unadvisedly or lightly,’ to use the words from the marriage ceremony. They satisfied me that it was their desire to formalize, as best they could, a loving and monogamous relationship.”

  Aberforth crossed one long black-clad leg over the other. “I’m willing to accept that you mistakenly thought you were not acting as a priest and that your inexperience clouded your judgment. Are you willing to confess that you were wrong in what you did?”

  She phrased her answer carefully. “I felt that they were reaching out to God. I wanted to reach back, to help them connect.”

  “Then you should have done so by gently correcting their sin, not by encouraging it.”

  “I cannot believe that two adults in a faithful and self-sacrificing relationship are sinning.”

  “Ms. Fergusson.” Aberforth speared her with his black eyes. “You have been ordained a scant two years. Bishops and learned theologians have been debating these issues in our church for longer than you’ve been alive. Do you really think you are the best judge of what is a sin or not?”

  She kept silent.

  “Are you willing to confess and repent?”

  Are you now, or have you ever been . . . Ridiculous, the way her mind ping-ponged sometimes. She took a deep breath. “I confess my disobedience. And I’m sorry to have caused the bishop any distress by failing to follow his guidance on these issues.”

  “You’re equivocating again.”

  “Father, I cannot repent of what I did. I don’t think I was wrong.”

  He sat in silence. What happened next? Was the bishop going to issue a commination against her in the pulpit, denouncing her? Was she going to be kicked out of St. Alban’s and bounced to another diocese?

  And even now, the treacherous thought: If I leave Millers Kill, I’ll never see Russ again.


  “The bishop asked me to call him after I spoke with you. I will lay this information before him.”

  She nodded.

  Aberforth stood. “If you have anything further you wish to add, or if, upon prayerful consideration, you change your stance, you can reach me at the Algonquin Waters.”

  She stood as well. Great. Let’s meet up tonight after the dinner dance. You and me and Hugh and Russ. We’ll all have a drink together.

  “One more question, before I go.”

  “Yes, Father?” She sounded as if she were being catechized.

  “At the start of our conversation, you were listening closely to what I was saying, and you were obviously concerned. Yet when I mentioned performing the illegal ceremony, you were”—he twisted the word—“surprised. To say the least.”

  “I am sorry about laughing. I didn’t mean to offend or belittle—”

  He cut her off. “What I want to know, Ms. Fergusson, is why you were so distressed.” From his stoop-shouldered height, he examined her. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  3:50 P.M.

  Lisa shut the door, locked it, and barred it with her body, facing her husband.

  “What’s the matter, babe?” he said.

  She had heard naughty six-year-olds fake innocence better. “You beat up Becky Castle.”

  His face went white. His eyes bugged out. “N-no,” he stammered.

  “You worked her over so bad she wound up in the hospital getting surgery to stop her internal bleeding!”

  He shook his head, his mouth working.

  “I know you did, you shit!” She started to cry. “My sister was her postop nurse! She called to warn me.”

  In the middle of the living room, he fell to his knees. “Oh, babe.” He reached for her. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, I was just trying to get a break, to save my job, and Ed Castle turned me down flat and she laughed at me and said she was going to spread my picture around and have me arrested, and I got so mad, so out-of-my-skull mad, and she was such a smug-faced bitch, one of those people who get everything handed to them and can’t understand what it’s like to try so hard, and then she was so still, and I thought she was dead, I really thought I had killed her . . .”

  Lisa wiped her arm across her eyes. Randy’s agonized expression, his pleading confession, steadied her. “For God’s sake, Randy. Get up.” She reached down a hand. He staggered to his feet. He looked as if he wanted to hug her but was afraid to move closer. “How could you think she was dead? Didn’t you feel for a pulse? See if she was breathing?”

  His face sagged. “I didn’t think of that.”

  She sighed. “That’s because you’re not the detail person. I am.” She rubbed her hands over her eyes and looked at him wearily. “So did you think of what you could do to not get your butt hauled into jail?”

  He stared at the wall-to-wall carpet. “I . . . I didn’t think . . .” He looked up at her hopefully. “Maybe she won’t remember?”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head as if to dislodge something from her ear. “For God’s sake, Randy, she already told Rachel. Any minute now she’ll be speaking with her doctor, and as soon as she points to you, he’ll have the cops on you. We’ve got maybe thirty minutes before Kevin comes back. If we’re lucky. And he won’t be smiling and all ‘Hey, Randy, how’s it going?’ this time.”

  “I never meant to hurt her in the first place!” Randy looked as if he were going to cry.

  “Baby, that’s not going to stop them from putting you in Clinton for the next ten years.”

  “Look. There’s no evidence. It’ll be my word against hers if she tells the cops.”

  “Oh, Randy.” She couldn’t help it. She wrapped her arms around him. “You spilled your guts to me in fifteen seconds. How much longer do you think you could hold out to the police?”

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “What should I do?”

  That was the question. She hadn’t had a chance to gather her thoughts since Rachel’s call. “Did you leave anything behind? Any evidence?”

  She felt him shake his head. “I drove her car to the Reid-Gruyn plant.”

  “The mill? Why on earth did you dump her car there?”

  He leaned back so she could see him. “I was thinking, there should be another story, right? Another version of how it happened. So I parked it in Mr. Reid’s space. Then I left some of her personal stuff in the office.” He held his hands out. Don’t you get it? “Reid belongs to some of those environmental groups. And he likes young babes—look at who he dumped his first wife for. I figured, if worse came to worse, I could argue that they were getting it on, and he hurt her, and she didn’t want to turn him in.”

  She squeezed him. “That was smart. But what about fingerprints and bloodstains and stuff like that?”

  “I wore my gloves.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek, staring into the middle distance. He waited. Finally she said, “I think you need to disappear for a while.” He opened his mouth to protest, and she went on. “Just for a while. You made a good start, making it look like Mr. Reid was involved. If we have a little time, I can think of a way to back that up, so the cops will seriously look at him instead of you. If it comes down to a trial”—he made a whimpering sound, and she gripped his shoulders—“if it comes down to a trial, all we’ll have to do is cast a reasonable doubt that you did it.”

  She wasn’t sure if he followed her reasoning, but he grasped the essential thing. “Where do I go? And how long do I have to stay away?”

  “Go to one of your buddies’ hunting cabins. Or, here.” She broke away and hurried into the kitchen, where she kept cash payments in the cookie jar until she could deposit them. “Head up north and stay in one of those no-tell motels.” She handed him the cash. “Wherever you go, you need to stick to the back roads, because they’ll probably be looking for your truck.”

  He had been thumbing through the bills, impressed, but mentioning the police tracking him brought his head up. “That’s right,” she confirmed. “Whatever you do, don’t let anybody see that license plate.” She turned him toward the stairs. “Grab one of the duffle bags and throw in enough clothes for a few days. I’ll pack you some food. It’d be better if you stayed out of stores. Especially convenience stores. Those places have security cameras every two feet.”

  He stopped, his hand on the banister. “You really do think of everything.” His voice was threaded with awe.

  “Go on, you don’t have much time.”

  Lisa unhooked one of the plastic IGA shopping sacks from behind the pantry door and began emptying out the refrigerator. A loaf of bread, a jar of mayo, an unopened package of bologna. Hard cheese and applesauce in a jar and Randy’s favorite pickles. Stuff that could fill him up and last, if not in a fridge, then hanging outside a window in the cold November air. All the while, the back of her mind kept count of how many minutes it had been since Rachel called. She tossed in a bag of Chips Ahoy and a jar of instant coffee, on the chance that he’d have hot water. She threw in a couple of spoons and a knife sharp enough to slice the cheese and twisted the bag handles in her fist and lugged it to the foot of the stairs.

  “Hurry!”

  A moment later he appeared, a backpack slung over his shoulder and one of their sleeping bags beneath his arm.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  He stood before her, unsure, not Jesse James making a break for the border but a kid heading out to summer camp for the first time. She hooked him around the neck with her arm and pulled his face close to hers. “First thing,” she said quietly, “is that I love you. Second thing is, if you ever, ever lift your hand to me, I’ll cut off your balls and feed ’em to the fishes. And then I’ll move out west and you’ll never see me again. Got it?” She pulled him tighter into the crook of her arm.

  “Yeah,” he breathed.

  She released him. “When it’s safe, give me a call.” She handed him the
bag of groceries.

  At the door, he hesitated. “Maybe I—”

  “Go on,” she said, cutting him off. He nodded. Stepped outside and closed the door behind him. She didn’t stand at the window to see him pulling out. Randy could talk of omens and foretelling, of bad luck and good luck. She knew it was thinking and planning that made the difference between success and failure. She flung herself onto the sofa and picked up the Aruba pillow. She had a lot of thinking to do if she was going to save them from disaster.

  3:55 P.M.

  Kevin bounded up the granite steps to the Millers Kill Police Department. He knew Mark Durkee thought it was an old dump, the brick-and-stone exterior unchanged since it was built over a hundred years ago, but it still pumped Kevin up every time he passed beneath the carved sign. Knowing that he belonged here. He had wanted to be a cop since he was six years old, and how many other people could say they were living out their dreams?

  He yanked his cap from his head and struggled out of his jacket as he headed up the hallway to the squad room.

  “Hey! Kevin!” Harlene’s voice. He swerved into the dispatcher’s office, where she was enthroned on her swiveling, adjustable, ergonomically correct Aeron chair in front of a bank of phone lines. He had asked her once, on a dare, how she rated a seat that cost ten times more than any other piece of furniture in the station. She had looked up and up and up at him—like the chief, he was over a foot taller than she was—and said, “Because I’m worth ten times more than any runny-nosed police academy graduate.”

  “Where’s the chief?” he asked, throwing himself into a chair. “Still up to Haudenosaunee?”

  “The birthday boy just called in. He’s en route to the ME’s office. Don’t you get comfortable over there,” Harlene said. “Lyle’s been trying to get ahold of you. He interviewed the assault victim, and she’s ID’d her attacker. The deputy chief wants you to meet him and be in on the arrest.”

  Kevin felt a warmth, like the sun rising in his chest. “Me?”

  She looked over her half-glasses at him. “It’s Randy Schoof.”