All Mortal Flesh

FORTY-FOUR

Clare sat at her desk and watched the snow fall past the diamond-paned windows in her office. It made a beautiful picture, like an illustration from a Snow White storybook she had as a girl. She could imagine herself opening the casement and pricking her finger, the red against the snow. Hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, lips red as blood.

Blood on snow. She wrenched her gaze away from the window and forced her attention back to the papers in front of her. She had done all she could reasonably do. She had called the people who had lost animals, and then she had called the police. Why weren’t they the ones who had seen the pattern, anyway? She was a priest. Why did she have to do their legwork for them?

She flashed on a long-ago conversation with Russ.

Legwork? he had teased.

Well, that’s what they call it on TV.

She smacked the papers with the flat of her hand. No more of that. She was going to get her work finished and go home. Make some soup and put in a DVD and say her prayers and go to sleep. And that would be the end of the first day of never seeing Russ again.

She sank her head in her hands. That was the blood and blackness in her picture. She had already done this, just last Monday, and been whipped from pillar to post in the past four days. His wife was dead, then she wasn’t. He was a suspect, then Clare was. He needed her, relied on her, leaned on her. Then he weighed her and found her wanting. Yesterday morning he sat here, right here in this office, and let her hold his heartbreak in her hands. Now they couldn’t talk to each other.

No wonder she was distracted. She was waiting for the next blow to fall.

The phone rang.

She eyed it. When Lois had left an hour ago, she had set incoming calls to ring to the rector’s office. If Clare didn’t pick up after ten rings, it went into voicemail, to be dealt with when they had all dug out from underneath the storm.

Clare picked up the receiver. “St. Alban’s Church.”

“Hey, Reverend Fergusson.”

“Harlene? Why are you whispering?”

“The Wicked Witch of the West asked me to get you on the phone. But I had to pass on some news first. The state police have Dennis Shambaugh in custody. Eric McCrea and herself are meeting up with the arresting officer at Troop G headquarters for the interrogation.”

“Holy cow!” Clare whispered. She cleared her throat. “Does Russ know?”

“I left a message on his cell. He’s been hauling all over the North Country today, talking to Linda’s customers. If he hasn’t headed home already, he’s probably still at the Algonquin. Oops.” Harlene reverted to her normal voice. “Hold please.” There was a click.

“Reverend Fergusson?” The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound happy.

“Hello, Investigator Jensen. What can I do for you?”

“You can stop blabbing police business to the press.”

Jensen must have finally read the Post-Star, which was more than Clare was going to do. “I never spoke to the paper. Whatever the reporter got he got from hanging around the police station.”

“I’m talking about Quinn Tracey,” Jensen snapped.

“What?”

“Officer Flynn went to his house to question him. The boy’s mother said a reporter had called and asked to talk to the kid. After the conversation, the kid took a powder.”

“He’s gone?”

“You have information or suspicions? Call us. And then trust that we’ll handle it. Don’t go yapping to the Post-Star.”

“I didn’t!”

“It was the same reporter who’s covering the Keane murder, Reverend. Do you want me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“It-well, not exactly, but I didn’t-”

“Look, I don’t have time. I’m heading down to Loudonville. If we can’t turn the Tracey kid up, I’m holding you personally responsible. Have a nice day.”

Clare was left holding the receiver, her mouth open to ask another question. What do you want Quinn Tracey for? Jensen’s level of vitriol seemed way overblown for someone who had dismissed Clare’s findings as over-the-top pranks. Unless Jensen had decided there was something more to the string of animal killings. Something like…

Audrey Keane.

Where would Quinn run to? Almost before the question had formed itself in her mind, she knew the answer. She reached for the phone book and flipped through the pages until she found MACENTYRE, CRAIG AND VICKI.

She dialed the number. It rang, and rang, and rang, and when the answering machine picked up she wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “Aaron? This is Clare Fergusson. We spoke the other day about your friend Quinn. Would you-”

“Hello,” Aaron said.

“Oh.” Clare felt foolish. “You’re home.”

“My folks aren’t here. When I’m home alone, I’m supposed to listen to see who it is before I answer.” His voice was different. Flat.

“Um…” She didn’t want to alarm him with something out of a summer scream fest. Get out of the house now! “When are your parents getting home?”

“I don’t know. They and my sister went shopping in Albany. I can take care of myself if they have to stay, due to the weather.”

Aaron sounded as if he were far away, talking about someone else entirely.

“Are you okay?” Clare asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Is your friend Quinn there?”

“Quinn?”

She sighed. “Aaron, the police very much want to question him. If he’s there, or if he shows up, you need to call them and let them know right away.”

“Call the police and let them know. Okay.”

She was past exasperated and into worry. “Is he there right now?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if he was?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t think of anything else. It wasn’t like she could crawl through the line to keep the boy safe. “It’s not a game. Call the police if he contacts you in any way.”

“I will. Good-bye, Reverend Fergusson.”

She hung up. Looked out the window at the snow. Now what? She picked up the phone and dialed the police station again.

“Millers Kill PD.”

“Harlene, it’s Clare. I’m sorry to bug you, but I have an idea where Quinn Tracey might be.”

“Is this official? Okay, hang on, I’m going to record it. Go on.”

Clare explained about the boy’s friendship with Aaron MacEntyre, and the phone call she had just had.

“So, you’re thinking because he seemed funny over the phone, that maybe the Tracey kid was already over there?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever talk to Aaron MacEntyre on the phone before?”

“No.”

Harlene made a noise. “Never mind, I trust your instincts. I’ll send someone over there as soon as I can, but I have to tell you, we’re real shorthanded right now.”

Clare hesitated. I have done all that I can reasonably do.

No, you haven’t.

“I’m going to head over there myself,” she said.

“Reverend, I don’t think-”

“I need to do it. I’ll have my cell phone with me.” She rattled off the number to the dispatcher.

“You know, the chief isn’t going to like this one bit.”

Clare paused for a moment, to make sure there was no trace of bitterness in her mouth. “I think the chief has more important things to worry about than me.”