I Shall Not Want

I

Clare walked over to the church early Wednesday morning for the seven-thirty Eucharist. The night before, exhausted from the drive from Fort Dix and tense over the state of her home, she headed straight for the rectory, which had turned out to be so much neater and cleaner than it had been before the burglary, she was a little embarrassed.

Anne Vining-Ellis and her youngest son, Colin, were waiting at the great double doors. Her skirt and blouse said she was headed for the Glens Falls Hospital. Colin, in pipe-cleaner jeans and pointed shoes, looked like he was auditioning for an eighties revival band. "I'm delivering your acolyte du jour," Dr. Anne said.

The boy pushed his overgrown bangs away from his face. "Under protest. Organized religion is a tool of the capitalist machine."

"He's taking a summer AP course in Marxism-Leninism," Dr. Anne said. "God help us all."

Clare handed the teen her overloaded key ring and Thermos of coffee. "Would you open up for me, Colin? And drop this in my office?"

He took the jangle of keys. "Why not? I'm only a member of the proletariat, crushed by the oppressive boot heels of history. Want me to light the candles, too?"

"Thanks." Clare turned to his mother. "Remind me to give him some books on liberation theology."

"Don't bother. The second half of the unit is Adam Smith and John Maynard Keynes. He'll probably be selling the church silver on the free market." Dr. Anne watched Colin disappear into the narthex. "How are you doing? I almost came over last night, but I figured you'd be wiped after the drive from New Jersey."

"Thanks, yeah. I'm okay. I'd be better if I heard Señor Esfuentes has been found safe and sound."

Dr. Anne shook her head. "Nothing yet that I know of."

Clare sighed. "That's what I thought. I figured Russ-someone would call if anything turned up." She looked past Church Street 's steady stream of commuter traffic, headed for Glens Falls or the Northway. The park appeared much less magical in the strong morning sun. "I keep going over Sunday night in my head, wondering what I could have done to prevent it. Should I have dragged him over to the party? Gone home early? Left someone to watch over him?" She reached for the back of her head, ready to repin falling pieces of hair, but this early in the day her twist was still inviolate.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record, it's just as likely he trashed the place and went off."

Clare shook her head. "No."

Dr. Anne started down the sidewalk. "Sometimes I think you carry this look-for-the-good-in-all-people thing too far," she said over her shoulder.

"I know," Clare said. "It's an occupational hazard."

It was a typical Wednesday morning, ten communicants, if she counted herself and Colin. No one, thank God, wanted to linger and chat about last Sunday's events, and she was disrobing in the sacristy five minutes after she had dismissed her flock.

In the office, Lois greeted her with a hymn. "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war," the secretary sang, "with the hel-i-cop-ters, flying on before."

Clare peeked into the tiny hole-in-the-wall that was the deacon's office. No one was there yet. "It's no wonder Elizabeth thinks we're both deranged."

Lois rolled her eyes. "I think the National Guard ought to pay me for putting up with that woman while you're gone."

"What happened?"

"She wanted to know what I thought of you taking up with Chief Van Alstyne again."

"Taking up with-?"

"I told her I don't gossip and I don't care to listen to those who do. Then, of course, she was sweet as cream, saying she was just worried about people thinking it a scandal. I told her the only scandal would be if you let the best man in Millers Kill get away." She leaned on one elbow and pointed the letter opener at Clare. "Which is not to say I don't give a thumbs-up to Hugh Parteger. He has lovely manners, and he makes five or six times what the chief of police does."

"Maybe you should ask him out, then. I don't think he's going to be calling me anymore. Not after this past weekend."

Lois pulled a stack of pink phone messages free from a spiked note keeper. She selected one and held it up. "I don't know about that. He phoned three times. Wants to talk with you soonest."

Clare groaned. "Please tell me there are a lot of work-related messages I have to return first."

"The bishop wants you to call. Her Holiness was complaining to him about your having a dangerous criminal in the rectory, that sort of thing. And he wants to know why you're in the paper. Again."

"I'm in the paper?"

"There was a story about the break-in and poor Señor Esfuentes's disappearance in the Post-Star. It doesn't mention him by name-I suppose they have to find his next of kin and all, poor souls-but you're featured front and center. That reporter called for a statement."

"Ben Beagle?"

"Mmm-hmm. I told him you were away, preparing to defend the freedom of the press with your life."

"You didn't."

"Well, no, not in those words. I did tell him it was National Guard duty." She plucked a pink message slip off the spike and rattled it between her long fingers. "I swear, that rag's getting no better than one of the tabloids. Made it sound as if none of us are safe in our beds. Well, none of us who might be Hispanic."

Clare held out her hand for the rest of the pink message slips. "I suppose I should count my blessings. At least Elizabeth isn't holding a press conference about my scandalous carryings-on. Yet."

"I heard poor Mr. Parteger was left kicking his heels on the sideline while you and Chief Van Alstyne danced all night."

"I thought you never listened to gossip?"

"I never repeat it. I can't help it if people like to confide in me. It's the job. Sooner or later, the church secretary hears everything."

Clare squared her shoulders. "The chief and I danced for two songs. If we were on the floor for more than eight minutes I'd be surprised."

Lois smiled widely. "You're blushing."

"I am not." Clare resisted covering her cheeks. "Would you please call the IGA with the usual order of lunch things for the vestry meeting?"

"Yes, I will."

Clare fled the office with Lois still smiling like the owner of a dumb dog who has just learned a new trick.

At her own desk, Clare poured a mug of her home-brewed coffee and dug right in to answering the messages that had accumulated in her absence. After she had returned most of the calls, she applied herself to the proposals for fall projects the vestry would be discussing at today's lunchtime meeting. The pink message notes from the bishop and Ben Beagle and Hugh glowered at her whenever she glanced away from her paperwork. For once, it was a relief to have Lois buzz her about the vestry meeting.

"It's time," the secretary said. "The deacon is already in there with copies of the agenda and the proposals."

The babble of voices from the meeting room died away when she came through the door. With linen-fold paneling and diamond-paned windows, high-backed chairs and a threadbare Aubusson rug, it had been the best Tudor copy that 1860s technology could buy. Perhaps the builders of St. Alban's had wanted to salute Henry VIII, the founder of the church.

"Hello, everyone." They had left a place for her at the head of the black oak table. Without any formal plan or discussion, the vestry always seemed to arrange themselves in the same way. Robert Corlew, the senior warden, sat at Clare's left, with Terrance McKellan supporting him, in much the same way that Terry's bank supported Corlew's developments. On her right, junior warden Geoffrey Burns held his position opposite Corlew; lawyer versus contractor, forty versus sixty, thinning hair versus toupee.

At least she thought that pelt on Corlew's head was a rug.

Mrs. Henry Marshall, bright-eyed and brilliantly lipsticked, sat between Burns and Norm Madsen. Mrs. Marshall was Clare's most faithful ally on the vestry, tart-voiced and decisive, while Mr. Madsen was the one who always saw every side to an issue. Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both scales against either.

Clare snagged a Coke off the sideboard and dropped into her chair.

Sterling Sumner, retired architect and sometime lecturer at Skidmore College, sat across the long expanse of the table from Clare, about as far from Corlew as possible. He was sliding the usual platter of sandwiches and chips to Elizabeth de Groot, who was at his right hand. They had discovered they shared similar tastes in buildings (historic), liturgy (formal), and literature (nothing written after 1890). Clare wasn't sure if Elizabeth knew she and Sumner also shared similar tastes in men.

The platter reached Terry McKellan, who glanced up and down the seats before taking two sandwiches and chips each. His wife had him on a diet, which had turned the finance officer into a stealth eater. Clare thought he looked like a guilty English sheepdog stealing food off the counter.

Robert Corlew took a sandwich and slid the platter toward Clare. She dropped what she hoped was chicken salad on whole wheat on a napkin. "Since this is the last meeting before we pick up again in September, let's get right to it." She spread her hands, inviting them to prayer. "Lord God," she said, "help us to discern your will, and discerning, to serve your people, to the glory and honor of your name. Amen." Short but serviceable. "Okay, Looking at the first item, a proposal to turn volunteer education director Gail Jones's job into a part-time paid position-"

"I'd like to find out more about what happened at the rectory Sunday night," Corlew said.

"Hear, hear," Sterling said.

Clare sighed. Laid her pen atop her stack of papers. Reminded herself to relax her shoulders.

"Amado Esfuentes, our temporary sexton, robbed Clare and then took off," Elizabeth said.

Clare felt her shoulders bunch right up again. "We have no proof of that, Elizabeth."

"I already heard that." Corlew waved the deacon's words away with an irritated expression. "I mean, was there any damage to the rectory? Do we have any insurance exposure?" He turned to Clare. "After all, you did invite the little weasel to come in and make himself at home."

"Now, Robert." Mrs. Marshall gave Clare a small smile. "I think Clare realizes that was not, perhaps, the best idea. No need to belabor the point."

"The point is that it's far too dangerous for any member of St. Alban's to be driving these wetbacks around to the welfare office or Roman Masses or what have you." Sterling Sumner jerked his silk aviator's scarf for emphasis. "We never should have gotten involved with that nun's ministry. Let the papists take care of their own, I say."

Clare was caught between open-mouthed outrage at the range of Sterling's bigotry and amazement that someone could use the word 'papist' in a sentence in this century.

"I don't agree with Sterling's sentiments," Geoff Burns said, "but I have to concur that we need to suspend the migrant worker outreach immediately." He turned toward Clare. "I'm the last person to say guilty until proven innocent, but I already have two Hispanic clients awaiting trial for drug charges. There are some bad people out there, Clare."

"And you can tell they're bad by the color of their skin?" Clare's voice rose. She swallowed and tried again. "St. Alban's volunteers are reaching dozens of men each week, providing them with cell phone service, transportation, and access to the free clinic." She nodded toward Mrs. Marshall, whose mother had founded the health center. "It's one of our most successful outreach programs, and it doesn't cost the church a dime."

"We have reimbursed for gas," Terry said. Clare gave him an exasperated look. "Just being accurate," he said.

"Oh, sure." Corlew glowered at Clare. "It's all wine and roses until one of our congregation gets mugged, just like you would have been if you'd been home Sunday night instead of playing kissy-face with Russ Van Alstyne."

"I was not-"

Mrs. Marshall giggled. It was such an unexpected sound-like hearing the Queen of England snicker-they all stared.

Clare recovered first. "Señor Esfuentes may well have been a victim of crime, instead of a perpetrator. There's no conclusive evidence either way."

"In which case," Sterling said, "he may have fallen prey to this serial killer who seems to be haunting our area. Which brings me straight back to the central thesis: We cannot condone our people hanging about with men who may be targeted for violence at any moment."

"So you're saying we should dictate to our volunteers? Tell them we've decided it's too risky for them to be driving around the mean streets of Cossayuharie? Shouldn't they be able to make that call on their own?" She turned to Corlew. "Robert, you're a Republican, for heaven's sake. Don't you believe in individual responsibility?"

"Not," he said, "when we're in a position to get sued."

II

The meeting devolved into a wrangling session. Clare got the board to agree that volunteers who signed a statement that any further migrant outreach on their part was entirely a personal decision could continue. After all, how could the vestry stop them? But there would be no more central communication and coordination by St. Alban's. They never did get back to the question of the education director. By the time the Civil War-era grandfather clock chimed the hour, Clare was seething. From the way the vestry members tossed their goodbyes and hurried out the door, she knew she was doing a lousy job of hiding her feelings.

Elizabeth de Groot fluttered up to her after everyone else had left. "Clare," she said, in her cultivated voice, "I know this is a disappointment to you, but I'm sure that in time you'll see-"

"Elizabeth," Clare said, "don't you have something to do?"

The deacon looked at her hesitantly. "Uh, yes. Hospital visits."

"Then I suggest you go forth, spreading the good news of Jesus Christ." And leave me the hell alone.

Clare was sitting on the priceless antique table, wrapped in a blue devil, when Lois stuck her head in the door. "Want me to put away the leftovers?" she asked, waving toward the remaining sandwiches and chips.

"Thanks, Lois. Go ahead and take your lunch break. I'll carry this downstairs and put it in the fridge. I can deliver the sandwiches to the shelter later."

She found a plastic grocery bag in her office and tossed the chips in. Hanging it over her arm, she collected the sandwich platter and tottered downstairs to the church kitchen. The lights in the hall were already on. Good Lord, had she forgotten to turn them off after she and Lyle MacAuley went through the place Sunday night?

Wonderful. Another collection plate for the National Grid Power Company.

Then she heard a step behind her.

She whirled, saw the shape of a man emerge from the sexton's closet, and screamed. She was raising the tray in self-defense, hitting herself in the chest with the bag of chips, when the man said, "Father? It's just me."

She lowered the food. The sandwiches slid toward her, mashing into her stomach, mayonnaise and tuna smearing over the black cotton. "Mr. Hadley," she said. She cleared her throat to steady her voice. "You startled a year's growth out of me."

"Grampa? What was that?" At the other end of the hall, Hadley Knox's little girl popped out of the nursery. "Are you okay?"

Her big brother stepped into the hallway beside her. "Should I call Mom?"

"No! G'back inside, you two. I just startled the Father some." He ran one hand over his bald scalp. "Din't mean to scare you. We got here when you was meeting with the vestry. Din't want to interrupt."

"No, no." She looked down at the mess on her clerical blouse. "I was going to put this in the fridge." She looked at the sexton. He was in his usual work clothes: baggy, stained twill pants and a plaid shirt. He had a backpack in one hand, and even from several feet away she could smell cigarette smoke. "What are you doing here?"

"Honey told me 'bout the Mexican boy disappearing. I figgured it was time for me to get back on the job."

"With the kids in tow?" Another thought occurred to her. "Has your doctor-" the bag of chips was beginning to cut into her wrist. "Let me get rid of this, hmm?" He followed her down the hall into the semisubterranean kitchen. She laid the sandwich platter and the chips on the wide center island. "There are some sodas left in the meeting room. Would the kids like lunch?"

"Don't want to be no bother." He waved his hand in the vague direction of her upper body. "Better take care of that stuff on your shirt, there. 'Fore it stains."

She grabbed a dishcloth and turned on the cold water. "Has your doctor given you the okay to go back to work?"

He grunted. "Somebody's got to. This place ain't gonna clean itself, y'know."

She looked up from scrubbing the mayo off her blouse. "Does your granddaughter know you're here?"

Mr. Hadley shifted from foot to foot. "Long as I'm watching the kids and they ain't parked in front of the TV like she axed, I don't see as it makes no never mind where we are."

"Mr. Hadley-"

He lifted the backpack and placed it next to the sink. "I found this in my closet. Figgured it belonged to the Mexican."

She recognized it now. Amado had been carrying that bag when she had come to pick him up at the McGeochs' farm. Before the choir concert. Before the Christies invaded her church. Before Russ-

She dropped the dishcloth in the sink. The mayo was gone, but now she had an enormous oily wet spot on her midsection. "I suppose the police will want to see it."

"I s'pose they will." Mr. Hadley unzipped the bag and held it toward her, opened wide.

"Holy-" She inhaled. Inside, a monstrous.357 nestled between wrapped stacks of currency.

"Oh, dear lord." She thought of the young Latino's nervous eyes. The way he'd scrub at his half-grown mustache when she spoke to him. "What did you get yourself into?"

III

He wished he had kept the gun. It would have felt good, riding heavy against the waistband of his jeans, raising a bruise as he toiled up and down the forested hills, making his way to the Christie farm. It was a form of communication those hijos de putas could understand.

Amado paused and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The air was sticky with the scent of pine. Only an hour past dawn and already hot beneath the forest cover. Raul thought he was a liar, with his stories of cool mountain mornings and evenings where you needed to wear a jacket. Those were past years. This year was different.

He wished he had never come back to this place.

He wasn't sure how he was going to get them to admit what they had done with Octavio. He wasn't even sure they were there. The policewoman who had come last night, asking questions while her partner searched the bunkhouse and the barn and the outbuildings, had said other police were talking with the Christies at the same time. She had said they should call if Amado showed up. Everyone looked straight ahead and pretended they didn't know the real Amado had swapped names and papers with his brother. She had said they should watch out for anyone suspicious and should stick together in pairs. She didn't know much about dairy work.

He had two utility knives in his pockets. A farmer's tool. Sharp enough to slash through tangled leather straps, sturdy enough to pry a stone out of a hoof. He was a farmer, not a fighter, but he knew he could hurt the Christies badly enough to make them talk. If they didn't kill him first.

He hiked up the last rise-the same stretch of woods he had stumbled through a month ago, fleeing with gun and money and Isobel's kiss and the sounds of her beating in his ears. He wondered, for the hundredth time, if he should have stopped her brother and taken her away. To save her. To save Octavio from this stupid mix-up he had created. One lie, to keep Octavio from deportation. And now it might be the boy's death warrant.

Did they come after him because they thought he was the brown-skinned man kissing their sister? Or had Isobel crumbled and told them a man named Amado had the gun and the money, sending them after Octavio in a stupid, deadly mistake? Either way, he was to blame. For losing his mind and pretending he could be with an Anglo woman. For agreeing to keep her secrets, even when he wasn't sure what they were. For handing a bag full of death over to Octavio. He had counted the money. It was more than enough for someone to kill for. And he had given it to the boy with no more warning than to keep it private. What could be safer than a church?

What had he been thinking?

He heard something ahead of him. He froze. A ting-ting sound, like sweet small bells. The skritch-skritch of squirrels running up a tree. Bleating. He relaxed until he remembered Isobel's family raised sheep. If they were grazing in the old wood-ringed pasture, would one of the brothers be there? He reached inside his pocket and gripped the handle of the utility knife. One man, he could take on and hope to succeed. Unless there was a dog, too.

He slunk to the edge of the pasture like a wolf. There were perhaps fifteen or twenty sheep mowing the grass, their coats half-grown from a spring shearing, belled to make them easier to track. No shepherd. No dog that he could see, although that didn't mean there wasn't one napping in the shade of the pole barn.

A fox skull hung beside the hayloft door. Facing him. He almost turned and retraced his steps, but he was a man, and a man didn't run from a woman. He emerged from the underbrush and headed for the barn. Maybe she had news of Octavio. Maybe she wanted the gun and the money back. Maybe she needed his help again. Maybe she found herself thinking of him in the quiet moments of the day, pausing at the sight of hay in the cow barn, drifting away when the men discussed their women back home…

He jerked himself into the moment. The knife handle was slippery in his hand. He ought to stab himself in the thigh. Perhaps that would keep him focused. He reached the door. Hauled himself up over the lip. Heard her whisper, "Amado?"

For a split second, he worried about a trap, but then she bounded across the bales toward him, arms outstretched, hair streaming behind her like a pennant. She flung herself at him, arms wide, and all he could do was embrace her, teetering, and then he lost his balance and the two of them toppled backward onto the hay.

She was speaking, a torrent of English like choppy water pouring over him, and he could hear relief and fear and apology in her voice. He rolled to one side, letting her slip off him, and the motion seemed to make her aware of where they were, chest to chest, arm by arm, legs entangled. She said something, fast and low, and scrambled out of range. When she turned again, her cheeks were pale pink.

He sat up. Marshaled his thoughts. He couldn't afford to let sentiment mess up his judgment. "Your brothers," he said, "take Octavio." He rose to his feet. He wasn't any taller than she, but he was strong. Very strong. "Where?" he demanded.

She shrank back. He felt like a slug, but he continued to glare at her. "Where?"

"Octavio?" Another flood of English, this time questions.

He held up one hand. He didn't want her to know the relationship between Octavio and himself. Anything she knew, her brother might beat out of her. "Octavio work at"-he sketched a cross in the air-"la iglesia."

"The church?"

"The church, yes. Your brothers take him."

"Mi familia," she said, "no take him. No." She spread her hands open. "I ask. They no take him. Yo promesa."

"You promise? You promise?" He spat on the hay next to his work boot. "Your brothers lie."

"No." She should have been offended or angry, but instead her face softened. She stepped toward him, tentatively, as if he might snap and slap her like her abusive brute of a brother.

Mother of God. What sort of man was he, frightening a woman who had learned to expect the side of a hand? He reached out to her. "Isobel," he said. She came to him, no reluctance now, and he held her as he would hold a child, his anger and misery leaching away as he murmured, "Lo siento. I am sorry. Lo siento."

After a few moments, she pushed away from him. He released her instantly. She faced him, her lips pressed firm, her eyebrows knitted, the face of someone trying to put something complex into simple, understandable words. "La policia ask for…"-she frowned-"Octavio?"

"Octavio."

"La policia ask my brothers." She mimed a burly man, arms akimbo, holding out one arm in a sign to stop. "No here," she said in a gruff voice. "No Octavio." She reverted to her own voice. "I ask my brothers. They-" She held her belly and faked a deep laugh. "Ha-ha-ha!"

"Risa."

"¿Risa? Laugh?" She nodded. "My brothers"-she enacted the big man again, complete with deep voice-"El hombre de la iglesia? Pffft." She made an elaborate show of who cares? She shifted back to herself. "I ask, me promesa? My brothers"-she dropped her voice again-"Okay. Promesa."

She came to a standstill. "Lo siento, Amado." He could hear the truth in her words. A cautious voice inside him whispered, She may be a brilliant liar, but one thing he had learned, traveling through a strange land, is that sometimes you have to trust. And believe. He wanted to believe in Isobel. He wanted that very much.

He reached for her hand. The price of belief was losing his only hope of recovering Octavio. Because if the Christies didn't have him, who did? How could he ever find him?

He let her draw him to where the old quilt had been spread over loose hay. He sat, then flopped backward, tired of dread and rage and suspicion. Tired of the patron relying on him and the men looking to him and the weight, the immovable, unchangeable weight of responsibility, to his brother in this country and to their family at home.

Isobel perched beside him, as if uncertain where she was allowed to be. He opened his arms, and after a moment she lay down snug against him. She rested her hand on his chest. He drew his fingers through the ends of her hair. He found himself talking about his parents. About his family's home. About his fears that he was the cause of Octavio's disappearance. He opened up his mouth and let every sad, mad, bad thing in his head out, named them all, and let them fly up into the shadows like the swallows nesting above. Finally, he looked at her, into her grave, patient eyes, and confessed his own foolish heart.

She lay beside him, her hand smoothing across the front of his shirt, until he ran out of words.

"Amado." Her lips were a little chapped. He wondered how they would feel. "Te amo."

He raised his eyes back to hers. "Isobel?" He hadn't taught her that. Do you know what that means?

She sat up. Began unbuttoning her shirt. Her fingers were shaking, but she never took her eyes from his. He lay still, afraid that if he moved he would frighten her off. Make her think he didn't want her.

Her shirt fell away. She unhooked her bra. In the rich shadows of the haymow, her skin glowed. She took his hand. Placed it on her breast.

Now he was shaking. It was insane. He didn't know this woman. If she brought him home, her brothers would murder him. If he brought her home, his mother would cry. They didn't even speak the same language. How could he love someone who wouldn't understand him when he proposed?

"Te amo," she repeated, sounding scared and determined. "¿Tu?"

He could have resisted her bare skin, but her naked faith broke him. He surrendered, gathering her to him, rolling her onto the quilt, stroking her hair away from her face as he whispered, "Querida, mi Isobel, mi corazón. Yes. I love you too."

IV

"Ten thousand dollars," the chief said. He thrust the last brick into a clear plastic evidence Baggie and sealed it. He braced the edge of the bag against the church's kitchen counter and signed and dated it.

"Looks like he was gettin' a damn sight more'n me for operating the carpet cleaner," Granddad said.

Hadley shot the old man a warning look. When Reverend Clare had called in the latest development in the Esfuentes case, Hadley had been riding along with the chief. She had been plenty surprised to find out her grandfather had reported for duty at St. Alban's. With her kids. She glanced at the other end of the island, where Genny and Hudson, parked on tall stools, were plowing through sandwiches as if they hadn't eaten since yesterday. Had Granddad forgotten to feed them breakfast? She watched him as he headed to the refrigerator. If his memory started to go, if he wasn't safe with the kids, she was well and truly screwed.

The chief looked across the kitchen island to where Reverend Clare was braced against the sink. "You know what this means, don't you?" She dropped her gaze to the countertop. Nodded. "He never would have left on his own without this."

"I know." She plucked at her black shirt, which had somehow gotten wet and greasy. "Do you think whoever… took him… was looking for this?" She finally lifted her head and met his eyes.

"If they were, he hasn't told them where it is. None of St. Alban's alarms have been triggered since you reset them Sunday night."

"Then maybe he's still alive."

"Maybe." His attempt at sounding hopeful fell flat. Hadley couldn't see why, regardless of Esfuentes's fate, his kidnapper hadn't come after the cash. If the bad guy had been after the money, he would have been pressing the boy from the start. And if he was what the chief didn't want to consider-a serial killer preying on young Hispanics-why wouldn't Esfuentes have told him about the money in hopes of distracting him? "Don't hurt me, I can give you ten thousand dollars" would have been the first thing out of her mouth.

Over the sound of her children eating-she couldn't help herself, she reached over and wiped Genny's mouth with a napkin-she registered Van Alstyne's silence. She glanced back at him. He and the reverend were watching each other across an expanse of granite and stainless steel. She'd heard they'd been plastered together at the fund-raiser. You couldn't tell by looking at them now, all buttoned up in black and tan. Hadley didn't get repression-if they had the hots for each other, why not just jump in the sack and work it out?-but right now she was grateful for it. If Van Alstyne's mind was on the rector, maybe he wouldn't stop to wonder how good a job Hadley could do as an officer when she hadn't even known where her own kids were.

Reverend Clare wrapped her arms around herself. The chief's hands convulsed. He shifted and blinked, as if he had just remembered Hadley was there. "Officer Knox. Did you find anything else?"

"Granddad says everything left there is his." She raised her voice. "Including two cartons of cigarettes."

Granddad slammed the refrigerator door shut and brought two cans of soda to where Genny and Hudson were sitting. "Can't just throw ' em away. You got any idea what a carton costs these days?"

The chief's mouth twitched up. "Was there anything out of place in the-uh, sexton's closet, Mr. Hadley? Maybe moved around, so as to hide something?"

The janitor shook his head. "No, sir. And that bag there wa'n't hid. Just hangin' on the hooks where I keep my coat and mackintosh."

The chief cocked his head toward Reverend Clare. She shrugged. "I have no idea," she said, answering a question he hadn't asked out loud. "I never saw him do anything or go anywhere that might explain ten thousand dollars. He worked here, and he went to the Spanish language Mass at Sacred Heart in Lake George a couple of Sundays with one of our volunteers. That's it. Elizabeth drove him to your sister's place a few times so he could hang out with the men there, but she always brought him right back to the church or the rectory."

"You said he brought the bag with him from Janet's farm the morning you were attacked."

"The bag, yeah. What he had in it, I couldn't say." She frowned at the backpack.

"This much money, I'm thinking drugs." He leaned on the counter, where bricks of cash lay piled like a bank withdrawal from hell. "But I'd've laid good money Esfuentes wasn't involved with the trade. So the question is, whose money is this?"

The rector paled. "Oh, God, you don't think it might be somebody here at the church, do you?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean, anything's possible, but given that Mexicans dominate distribution upstate and that Esfuentes came up from Mexico just three or four months ago, I've gotta go with that."

"What if the money doesn't have anything to do with selling pot?" Hadley eased down the island, away from her kids. "What if it came from… from-" The only other industry she knew that generated large amounts of untraceable cash was porn. She wasn't going to throw that on the table. "Something else?"

"Like what?"

"Maybe it's money all the men who came north with Amado saved," Reverend Clare said. "Maybe they gave it to him to store here because they thought it would be safer. Sister Lucia told me many migrant workers don't put their earnings into banks."

"Nice idea, but that hardly explains the gun."

Her face fell. "Oh. Yeah."

"Speaking of which, we need to get it back to the station and start the forensics workup on it." He picked up the plastic evidence bags and thrust them into the backpack. He glanced toward the end of the island, where Genny and Hudson were now shoveling birthday cake into their mouths. "Officer Knox, do you need some time to take your kids home?"

She could feel her face heat up. "No, sir. My granddad is supposed to be taking care of them."

The chief glanced toward Reverend Clare. "At the church?"

"It's fine if they're here, Hadley." Clare laid her hand on Hadley's arm. "It's just a shame-" She glanced at the backpack and bit her lower lip.

They saw the gun and the drug money?

"A shame they have to be inside on such a beautiful day."

Nice save.

"You probably don't know this, being new to town, but Gail Jones, our education director, runs a wonderful day camp for the Millers Kill rec department. Seven weeks in July and August. It's very affordable."

Eight hundred dollars for two kids. The reverend had a different idea of affordable than she did.

"Told her all about it," Granddad said. "She just waved me off. Maybe she'll listen to you, Father."

Reverend Clare's eyes lit with comprehension. She stepped closer to Hadley, turning her back toward the chief, shutting out the two men. "Hadley, have you ever heard of the priest's purse?" She spoke quietly, but Hadley could see Van Alstyne prick up his ears. "That's discretionary money, left out of the budget, that I can use as necessary. No questions asked. We have enough to pay for a couple of summer camp memberships."

"Thank you," Hadley said, her voice tight, "but we'll be fine." That was it. She was never going to be able to show her face in this church again. She tore herself away from the priest's sympathetic, understanding, unendurable gaze. "I'm ready to go if you are," she said to the chief.

Van Alstyne, thank God, just nodded. "Okay." He shouldered the backpack before glancing back. "Clare," he said.

The rector nodded.

"Keep the doors locked and the alarms up. Here and at your house. I'm going to put you and the church on the patrol sweep for the next few days, so expect to see squad cars a lot more frequently."

She lifted her chin. "Can I expect you to check in as well?"

Hadley, hugging Genny and Hudson good-bye, couldn't see the chief's face, but his tone made her think he was talking about something more than police business.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You can expect that."

V

Another thing about police work Hadley was discovering: it was nothing like the television shows. For one thing, the uniform didn't look half as good on her as it did on actresses. She suspected hand tailoring, and maybe a higher quality fabric than poly/rayon Wear-ev-r. For another thing, scoring a bag of money and a gun didn't immediately open up new avenues for the investigation. Instead, they waited and waited and waited to get a report back from the state ballistics lab.

In the meantime, she went on patrols with the chief or Eric McCrea, and drove her beater down to Albany for Basic, and worked all day on the Fourth of July. She shopped and trimmed Genny's hair and kept a worried eye on Granddad, who was smoking again when he didn't think she'd know and skipping his medication unless she poured it out and handed it to him. "I feel fine," he'd grumble, all the while looking pale and sweaty. He wouldn't hear of her mowing the lawn instead of him, and only by sending him to church with the kids Sunday and staying home was she able to sneak the job in. Even then, she lied and told him one of the neighbor's kids did it to earn a few bucks. In some ways, living with Granddad was as exhausting as living with her ex had been, although with Granddad she didn't have to worry about drugs or STDs.

On Monday, assembling for the morning briefing, her head was still half at home, worrying about what the kids would be doing and how Granddad was holding up. If Flynn hadn't nudged her, she would have forgotten her notebook.

"Here's the bad news," the chief said, hiking himself onto the table. "This is today's Post-Star." He held up the front page. CONCERN MOUNTS AS STRING OF MURDERS REMAINS UNSOLVED, the headline read. Squinting, Hadley could make out the subhead: AREA BUSINESSES FEAR TOURISTS WILL STAY AWAY.

Paul Urquhart snorted. "I say we can do with a few less straphangers. They just grab all the parking spaces and make it so it takes ten minutes to drive up Main Street."

"Because they're shopping at our stores and pumping money into our economy." The chief folded the paper in half and laid it on the table. "There were a lot fewer people around on the Fourth this year. The local businesses have a right to be concerned."

"Does this mean the board of aldermen's gonna be on your tail, Chief?" Noble Entwhistle asked.

"You let me worry about them. The rest of you need to be prepared to field even more questions about the investigation. Here's the company line: it's proceeding well, leads are developing, and there's no reason to be afraid."

"That'd be more convincing if we knew whether Amado Esfuentes was snatched or not," Eric McCrea pointed out.

"Which brings me to the good news. We've got ballistics on the gun found in Esfuentes' backpack."

"You're kidding," Lyle MacAuley said, from his position propping up the whiteboard. "Less'n two weeks? How much extra did you grease 'em?"

The chief grinned. "As Noble guessed, the mayor and the board of aldermen were screaming at me. I suggested they'd be of more use screaming to our assemblyman and representative. I understand several phone calls were made."

"Hah! Finally. Our tax dollars at work."

The chief pulled a stack of papers from a folder and handed them to Flynn, who took two, for himself and Hadley, then passed them back. "Here are your copies. The gun was a Taurus three-fifty-seven Magnum, not used in any of our unsub killings. We already knew that, because it wasn't a twenty-two. However, the CAF lab says there's a good chance it was a three-fifty-seven Magnum that fired on Sister Lucia's van back in April." He nodded toward Hadley and Flynn. "First District Anti-Gang Task Force says Taurus three-fifty-sevens are a hot item with various gangs in New York."

"Mexicans?" MacAuley asked.

"Yeah," the chief said. He flipped to the second page. "Fingerprints matched those taken from Reverend Fergusson's house and identified as Amado Esfuentes's. There are several good prints from a second-unknown-handler, and a third set on the cartridges. Those prints are nowhere else on the gun, and the second set don't appear on the cartridges."

MacAuley jotted down the info on the whiteboard. "Guy number one was the last to load, he hands it to guy number two, who gives it to our missing boy."

"That's my thought," the chief said.

Hadley looked around. No one was sitting poised at the edge of his chair, waiting to ask the question percolating in her mind. She sighed. "Chief, why wasn't the gun wiped down? If it's connected to the money, and we think the money comes from the drug trade, we're talking about professionals, right? Why wouldn't they take a basic precaution like getting rid of their fingerprints?"

"They're stupid. Or cocky," Eric McCrea said.

"Or," MacAuley said, "they're amateurs." He set the marker down and reoriented himself to face the chief. "You've never liked the serial killer angle."

"Damn right, I haven't."

"What if what we're seeing here is the fallout from a turf war? What if we've got a group of guys up from Mexico on work passes who've figured out that selling pot is a lot more profitable than milking cows? Maybe they've got connections back home, relatives already in the trade in Central America or something?"

"Or raising it here," Flynn said. "There're always farmers growing plants between rows of corn or guys up in the mountains with microplots."

The chief shook his head. "Homegrown is a little cash on the side up here. The weather's too harsh for any kind of major cultivation, unless you've got a greenhouse, and that's a hell of a job to conceal." He twisted to face the deputy chief. "What about distribution? If somebody's going head to head with the big boys, they've got to have distributors up here. Those guys sell wholesale, not retail. CADEA thinks the various gangs that control the trade have been building up their networks for years. You're not going to replace that overnight, no matter how many relatives you've got growing the stuff down in Guadalajara."

MacAuley flipped his hand open, as if throwing a card into play. "The guys on the street will go with whoever has the product. You replace the wholesaler, the rest of the organization falls into line."

"If you know who and where the dealers are. This isn't Brooklyn or Manhattan. This is the North Country." He pointed, and they all stared at the big map, three counties and a state park the size of Massachusetts splashed out in pastels against the stucco wall. "How the hell do you find the dealers in a territory this size? Not even counting the difficulties of being a Spanish-speaking alien in one of the least ethnically diverse parts of America."

There was a long pause as they all stared at the map. Hadley thought about how she, moving into a town she had only known as a visitor, found a hair-dresser, a second-hand clothing store, the day-old bakery outlet. She had to ask around. It didn't seem a likely technique for would-be drug lords.

"Maybe someone's switched sides?" The chief and MacAuley turned their attention to Flynn, who looked surprised that he had spoken out loud. "I mean, say you have the established distributor," he went on. "It works a lot like any other company, right? A couple CEOs at the top make a lot of money, a few middle managers make decent money, and the rest of them are living from hand to mouth. Then some competition shows up. Maybe one of the little guys decides there's a lot more potential for advancement if he takes what he knows and starts working for his bosses' rivals."

MacAuley shook his head. "The little guys know whoever shows up and gets the stuff out of the back of the truck. They don't have the big picture."

"Kevin's got the right idea, though." The chief reached for the coffee mug on the table beside him. "A turncoat makes the scenario more feasible." He took a long pull, then sat cradling the mug in his hands. "The part that doesn't fit is the timing of the murders. One in March, one roughly a year ago, and one older than that. If it's intergang rivalry, it's the slowest conflict in history."

MacAuley rubbed his lips with two fingers and nodded.

"Okay, send everything we've got to the First District Anti-Gang Task Force. See if something rings a bell with them."

"You got it," MacAuley said.

"Eric, you're continuing with background checks. See if you can get anything out of the CADEA."

"Yep."

"Everybody else is on patrol. I've called in Duane and Tim to handle the radar guns, so I want the rest of you very visible in town and in Cossayuharie. I want the community to know we're on the job, looking out for them."

"What about the migrant workers?" Urquhart asked.

The chief raised his eyebrows. "What about them?"

"Well, if we think some of 'em might be moving pot, shouldn't we round 'em up and fingerprint 'em? Send the info back to Mexico and see if anything pops up? They got some sort of Mexican FBI, don't they?"

Hadley could see the chief trying not to roll his eyes. "Yeah, they do. It's the Agencia Federal de Investigación. However, we can't just go rounding up migrants because we've been tossing around theories in the bullpen."

"Don't see why in th' hell not." Urquhart crossed his arms.

"Because nonresident aliens in the United States are protected by the same constitutional criminal protections as the rest of us," Hadley said. "Oberlinski v. United States." Jerk.

The chief cracked a sideways smile. "Glad to see you're paying attention at the Academy, Officer Knox."

She felt her face heat up.

"On a happier note, I was checking the funds for the police basketball association, and there's still money left for this year." The chief looked somewhere over Hadley's head, his face bland. "Since the PBA was meant to give kids something constructive to do-"

"You mean, keep 'em from knocking over convenience stores," MacAuley said.

"-I've decided to use the remaining money to fund some campers at the rec department's summer camp. I've already given the director enrollment info for two kids; if any of you know a family that could benefit from this, have ' em call Gail Jones at her office at the town hall." He picked up his folders and his coffee cup and slid off the table. "That's all, folks."

Hadley sat, frozen, while chairs scraped and shoes slapped and belts jingled. Something bumped against her, and she looked up to see Eric McCrea. "You feeling okay?" He squinted at her. "You look kind of feverish."

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I mean, no." She stood up, forcing Eric to scramble out of her way. "Excuse me."

She caught up with the chief right before he entered his office. "Chief," she said. "About the summer camp thing-"

"Oh, yeah. That's right." He glanced at the clock. "The drop-off is at the middle school. If you hurry, you can get your kids there and be back in about forty-five minutes. You can work through lunch to make it up."

"Sir." Her voice sounded strangled. "I can't accept-"

He looked down at her. "Officer Knox. This department is spending a good chunk of change on your training. I count a few hundred bucks to safeguard that investment as money well spent."

"I'm handling my home situation fine. I don't need charity." Now she sounded like a bitch. It was his fault. She didn't ask to be put in this situation.

He stepped into his office. Beckoned her in. Nudged the door half shut. He dropped his voice. "Look, Knox-Hadley. When Noble's mother started to wander away from her house at odd hours, we wired her doors with a security alarm and checked in on her four times a day. When Harlene's husband, Harold, got sick and had to go down to the Albany medical center twice a week, we drove him. This isn't an insurance office or a restaurant. We have to trust each other with our lives. And that means we take care of our own."

There was a knock, and the deputy chief stuck his head in the door. "Hey," he said. "You got a minute?"

The chief looked at MacAuley a long moment, an expression on his face Hadley couldn't make out. Then he nodded. "Sure." He turned back to Hadley. "Go ahead. When you get back, you'll patrol with me."

Hell. She'd look like an antisocial loner if she continued to protest. She tried to say thank you, but she couldn't get the words out. She settled for jerking her head up and down before fleeing the office. Out in the hall, she heard MacAuley ask, "What was that all about?"

"Oh, just touching base," the chief said. "What was it you wanted?"

She took off before she could start to feel grateful.

VI

Driving back to the station, Russ thought he had never been so busy doing so little in his entire career. He had dropped into enough stores, galleries, roadside stands, and mom-and-pops to write a shoppers' guidebook. He checked in with anxious proprietors, listened to their worries, and assured them they and their customers would be safe and protected. In between, he and Knox responded to at least a dozen reports of possible intruders and suspicious persons, every one of which was either nonexistent or a befuddled innocent.

The last call of the day-surprise, surprise-was Mrs. Bain. He groaned when Harlene gave him the report. "She says she's heard thumping and clattering noises out back of her barn, and she says there was a carload of real suspicious-looking Hispanic men driving slowly past her house, checking it out."

He keyed the mic. "Hispanic men. That's a new one. What about the prowler?"

"Ayeah, the prowler's back."

"Okay, copy the last report, change the date, and add in the Hispanics. Oh, and call one of the Bains and see if someone can come over, will you?"

"You got it. Dispatch out."

Knox was looking at him with a doubtful expression. "Shirley Bain," he explained, heeling the car around toward Cossayuharie. "Her only son lives down in Westchester. He likes to forget he grew up with manure on his boots, which I could forgive, except he also forgets to spend any time with his mother. So every three-four months she sees a prowler. We come out, look the place over, and write up a report, which we send to the son. He comes home for a weekend to make her feel safe, and then a few months later we do it all over again."

Mrs. Bain was sweet and apologetic and even more worried than usual as they walked around the barn, past clumps of day lilies and rhubarb gone to flower. Russ pointed out where some of her wood stack, drying in the late afternoon sun, had fallen.

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, Russell. I guess I'm just a silly old woman. But with all these terrible things happening to the Mexicans, I've been so frightened. I have half a mind to buy myself a gun."

Russ spent the walk back to her house convincing her that would be a bad, bad idea. Mrs. Bain had, as always, baked before they arrived, and in the kitchen she bustled about serving chocolate chip cookies and iced tea. Russ silently drew Knox's attention to the stack of recent Post-Stars in the recycling basket and the pile of true crime books waiting to go back to the library.

When the elderly woman found out Knox had children, she was in ecstasy. She insisted on emptying the owl-in-spectacles cookie jar and giving the entire paper-bagged contents to the junior officer to take home.

Russ was beginning to worry they weren't going to escape before dinner, but then there was a knock at the door and Geraldine Bain yodeled, "Shirley? Let me in."

Mrs. Bain unlocked the door for her sister-in-law. At seventy, Geraldine was well past retirement age but kept her position in the Millers Kill Post Office through sheer determination not to miss a word of gossip circulating through the town.

"Hello, Russell," she said. "And who's this? Is this Glenn Hadley's granddaughter I've heard so much tell about?" She hugged her sister-in-law while keeping an avid eye on Knox. "Don't you worry, dear," she said. "I've come to spend the night." Russ spotted the small suitcase on the doorstep and sprang to pick it up. He toted it to the second-floor bedroom, abandoning Officer Knox to Geraldine's interrogation.

She had gotten to who-was-Hudson-and-Geneva's-father-and-why-wasn't-he-here-with-them by the time Russ got back downstairs. He snagged the bag of cookies from the table and thrust it at the shell-shocked Knox. "Time for us to go, ladies. Mrs. Bain, you call us if anything else makes you nervous, okay?"

"Rushing off to St. Alban's?" Geraldine gave him a roguish wink. "Word is you've got yourself a sweetheart over there."

"Geraldine," Mrs. Bain said in a repressive tone.

"What? He can't wear the willow forever, a good-looking man like that." Geraldine looked him up and down. "If I weren't old enough to be your mother, I'd give that Reverend Fergusson a run for her money."

Beside him, Hadley Knox made a gurgling noise. He leaned in toward the Bain women. "I don't know as you should let that stop you, Geraldine. You know what they say about older women." Then he winked. She hooted with laughter.

Mrs. Bain frowned at her sister-in-law. "Oh, you and your foolishness!" She turned and looked up at him. "Russell, you will let Warren know what happened, won't you? He does worry so about me."

"Of course." He opened the door.

"Be good!" Geraldine's voice trailed after him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! And if you do, don't get found out!"

On the ride back down Route 17, Knox peeked at him several times, as if trying to work up the nerve to ask something. He figured it was about him and Clare, so he was surprised when she said, "Don't you find it kind of frustrating? Spending the whole day holding hands and soothing nerves?" He glanced over at her. "I mean," she went on, "it's more like babysitting than police work."

"Weren't you the one who said being a cop was like being a mother?"

"Oh, crap." She covered her face with her hands. "I did, didn't I? I can't believe I said that in a job interview."

"Don't be. It's one of the reasons I hired you." Ahead of them, the light at the intersection turned red. He took his foot off the gas. "Sometimes it gets a little frustrating, yeah. Mostly because I want to see some development on this case, and nothing's happening. But I try to remember that for most of the folks here, this is police work. Making sure Mom's not trapped in her house with a broken hip. Stopping cars from speeding around the schools and the park. Asking the neighbors to turn it down so everybody can keep it friendly."

"Do you ever wish it was more… I don't know, exciting?"

"I was an MP for over twenty years. Believe me, I saw plenty of exciting. No, I knew what I was getting when I came back to my hometown." The light turned green again, and he rolled onto Main Street. "Did you?"

She looked startled. Then thoughtful. "I don't know. I knew what I wanted, though."

He expected fresh air or a safe place to raise my kids or a new start.

She pursed her lips. "Anonymity."

"Huh." He bumped the cruiser over the walk and into the station parking lot. "I suppose, to the rest of the world, Millers Kill is pretty anonymous." He twisted the key in the ignition and the engine died. "Of course, within the town, you can't ask someone for a dance without everybody weighing in on it."

Getting out of the car, the heat that had been soft and drowsy in Mrs. Bain's grassy yard pressed down on them like a tar-smeared steamroller. All he wanted to do was check in, sign out, and get to his mother's house, where he could strip down to his shorts and try to catch a breeze in the backyard.

Clare's house would be cool. She believed air-conditioning was a constitutional right. He had helped her install a window unit last summer. She would have iced tea-sweet, like they made it down south-and cold beer. A glass for him and a bottle for her. He could stretch out in one of her oversized chairs and they could talk.

Yeah. Talk.

He knew, as soon as he stepped onto the marble floor of the entryway, that something had happened. He could hear the churn of conversation all the way down the hall. Eric emerged from the squad room, grinning. He sketched them a jaunty wave. "I'm outta here. My son's got a game."

"What's up?" Russ asked.

Eric's grin widened. "Go take a look."

Russ strode in, Knox on his heels. Lyle and Kevin were bent over a desk, heads bumping together, examining what looked like circ sheets. "What's up?" Russ asked.

Lyle looked up, grinning. "We've ID'd John Doe one. He's Rosario de las Cruces, late of Prendiepe, Mexico. The Agencia Federal de Investigación faxed a whole buttload of stuff on him." He waved Kevin back and handed the papers to Russ. "He's associated with the Punta Diablos gang, which has members on both sides of the border: pot coming north and guns going south. He spent a nickel in prison, Federales de somethin'-or-other; you can read it for yourself"-he jammed a finger at the appropriate spot-"but he's got no record of ever being in this country, which is why his prints didn't turn up with our usual search." He grabbed the papers back out of Russ's hands and yanked one sheet to the top. "Here's the Anti-Gang Task Force report on the Punta Diablos; they think de las Cruces was fairly high-level management but not at the top. Didn't get near the product-he was put away for unlicensed possession of a gun, criminal threatening, and currency violations."

"Currency violations?"

"Money laundering."

Russ felt a flare of excitement as the facts finally began to line up. "Our mid-level manager?"

"Could be. Although, seeing as he's dead, he's not telling anybody the names and addresses of his distributors."

"Unless he recorded the info somewhere." He and Lyle smiled at each other in wolflike satisfaction. "CD?" he asked. "Or one of those little whatchamacallits that you stick in the side of a computer?"

"Flash drive," Kevin Flynn said.

"Thank you, Kevin."

Lyle shook his head. "Too easy to duplicate. Plus, it's hard to really erase one of those things. They'd want something they could destroy completely if the Feds came knocking."

"Good old paper and pen?"

"A notebook," Lyle said. "Or a diary, or a journal."

"When they tossed Clare's place"-some of the good feeling fizzled away-"that's what they were looking for. Whoever 'they' are."

Lyle rocked back on his heels and rubbed two fingers over his lips. "They didn't find it that night. And it wasn't bagged with the money and the.357 Taurus. So either Esfuentes never had it, or he kept it someplace else entirely."

"Or it's still hidden at the church," Knox said.

They both turned to face her. She shifted from foot to foot, looking like she wished she hadn't spoken up. "There are books and notebooks all over the place. In the main office. In Reverend Clare's office. Hell, in the Sunday School room. Amado went everywhere, cleaning. He could have slipped it between a couple of other items and no one would have noticed."

Lyle was nodding. "Makes sense." He looked at Russ. "You said he led a pretty prescribed life, right? The Catholic church in Lake George, visits to the house out at your sister's farm, and St. Alban's."

"Right."

"He's not gonna leave it at the Catholic church. What if he can't get back? Same deal for stashing it in one of the volunteers' cars."

"It's possible he left it at the migrants' bunkhouse." Which meant the same crew who tossed Clare's house might be coming over to the McGeochs. He'd have to warn Janet not to let the girls anywhere near the new farm.

"Possible," Lyle said. "But he didn't leave the gun and the money there. The place has been on the patrol list ever since we twigged to the Hispanic connection, and so far it's been quieter'n a-well, quieter than the church, that's for sure."

Russ glanced toward Knox, the only other one of them to speak Spanish. "It's not urgent, then. Knox, you and Kevin can head over there tomorrow to do a search. I'll call ahead and let my sister and her husband know."

She nodded. He remembered her kids. Made a point of looking at the clock on the wall. "Okay, you're off duty. Stop bucking for overtime and go home."

She nodded, her relief plain. She turned.

"Hadley," Lyle said. "One more thing about de las Cruces." She turned back, her face half curious, half wary. "Those tats he had on his fingers? They were gang markings. Which means that the guy you saw in the Hummer-"

"Alejandro Santiago."

"That's him. He and his crew have maybe hooked up with the Punta Diablos. The AGTF didn't know that." The grin on his face widened. "We actually got a thank-you for passing on that piece of information."

Knox stared.

"Good work," Russ added, to clarify.

She nodded, then vanished through the squad room door. They listened to her footsteps clatter down the hall.

"I don't know about that girl," Lyle said.

"Woman." Russ picked up the sheets and shuffled back to the first one. "She'll do fine. She's coming along."

"I got two kids older'n she is. That makes her a girl in my book."

"Yeah? Your hunting rifle is older than Kevin. Doesn't make him a Remington."

Kevin quivered to attention. "Anything else, Chief? You want me to check out St. Alban's for you?"

"No, thank you, Kevin. I'll handle that myself." He ignored Lyle's huff of amusement. "See you tomorrow."

Kevin left with a great deal more reluctance than Hadley Knox had shown. When it was down to just the two of them, Russ let his feet wander to the big worktable. He hitched himself up onto its top. "Sister Lucia's van-" he stopped. Shook his head. "A van with a load of Hispanic men gets shot in April."

Lyle crossed to the whiteboard and wrote it down.

"Also, sometime in March or April, Rosario de las Cruces is killed in Cossayuharie."

"Or dumped there."

Russ nodded acknowledgment. "In May, Hadley and Kevin run across a carload of Punta Diablo gang members."

Lyle jotted on the board.

"End of June, Amado Esfuentes is kidnapped and his residence is searched."

"If that kid was a gangbanger, I'll eat my shorts."

"We agree on that." Russ tapped the circ sheets and arrest papers against his chin. "Maybe we're looking at this from the wrong end. What if it's not a power struggle?"

Lyle shrugged. "I dunno. I like that idea. It fits."

"It fits de las Cruces. It doesn't fit Esfuentes. Or the van shooting. What if what we're dealing with is the fallout from an intergang rivalry? Something happened. Maybe involving the older, unidentified bodies. And now what we're seeing is a hunt for witnesses."

Lyle squinted at the ceiling for a moment. "Possible." He glanced at the whiteboard. "A witness who has physical evidence. Money, the.357 Magnum, and this could-be list of distributors."

"You think I'm barking up the wrong tree with that? They were just looking for money when they tossed Clare's place?"

"Nope. Ten thousand's a lot to you and me, but if we're talking guys who import junk wholesale, it's penny ante. Job money, for the driver."

"Shut-up money?"

"Maybe. What's the definition of an honest politician?"

Russ smiled a bit. "One who stays bought. I take your point." He slid off the table. "I'm going over to St. Alban's. Maybe I'll find this mystery list and you and I can stop chasing our tails."

Russ expected his deputy's usual lazy assent and was surprised when Lyle stopped him with a hand to his arm. "We should call Ben Beagle tomorrow. Catch him up on some of this and tell him that we've searched the church and the rectory and come up empty-handed."

"What? Why?"

"Because." Lyle looked dead serious. "When the Punta Diablo boys figure out Esfuentes might have hidden something at St. Alban's, they'll be over there themselves."

VII

"What are we looking for?" Clare asked.

"I don't know." Russ frowned at the bookcase taking up one wall of her office. "Something that doesn't have anything to do with Jesus or the Episcopal church, I guess."

She pulled one of her Lindsay Davis mysteries off the shelf and handed it to him.

"Or Roman history," he said. "Smart-ass." He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He had been in what she'd have described as a fey mood since he arrived; restless, upbeat, talkative.

"It could be a journal or a diary or a notebook. I suppose it could even be a few papers stapled together."

"We ought to start in the office, then. There are a lot more bits and pieces there." She led him into the main office. He groaned when he saw the bookcase built into the wall. It ran from the doorway to the corner, ceiling to floor, filled with ledgers and books and file boxes and three-ring binders.

"It's a church. What the heck do you do that generates so much paperwork?"

She almost laughed. "Let's split the job. Do you want here or my office?"

"I'll tackle this."

She retreated back to her own bookcase, grateful for the space between them and resenting it at the same time. He shouted out questions now and then: "What's a proposed canonical amendment?… Did you know you have minutes to meetings from 1932?"-while she worked her way across her shelves.

She had removed and replaced everything on her bookcase and was considering the feasibility of checking the coloring books and picture Bibles in the nursery when Russ charged up the hall with a spiral-bound notebook in his hand. He flipped it open to show her the printed entries: names, dates, numbers.

"Sorry," she said, taking it from him. "This is the overflow baptismal registry." She walked back to the main office and eased an oversized leather-bound volume from its place on the middle shelf. BAPTISMS was impressed in gold leaf deep into its cover. "We need to buy another one of these, but they're ridiculously expensive." She opened it. "See? Name of the baptized, godparents or sponsors, date, age at baptism. Celebrant's initials." R.H.D.D., in the entry she was pointing to. "Robert Hames, Doctor of Divinity," she said.

He glanced at the notebook. It was arranged identically, although, without the example of the bound baptism record, the entries looked like strings of names. "C.F.M.D." she said. "Clare Fergusson, Master of Divinity."

"How come you don't just put down your name? Or 'The Rev. C.F.'?"

"I don't know. It was the first time I've ever been in charge of a baptismal registry. I just copied what the last guy did."

He snorted. "That's probably the origin of half the traditions you Episcopalians are so gung-ho about. Just copying what the last guy did."

"Mm-hmm. Which doesn't sound like much until you try to do something differently. How many Episcopalians does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"Uh. I don't know. How many?"

"What? Change the lightbulb?"

He laughed, which she appreciated, since it was a very old joke. "I didn't find anything," she went on. "We've got some odds and ends in the nursery. Do you want me to look there?"

"I guess." He replaced the heavy old leather-bound book and then the fifty-cent spiral-bound version. He took the same care with each one.

"You guess?"

He made a noise in the back of his throat. "I don't want to rule anything out. But let's face it, sticking a list of dealers where any three-year-old might turn it into an art project isn't likely." He stepped back to size up the office bookcase again, almost knocking into her. He turned and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. "Our best bet was right here. More loose bits and pieces. It woulda been easy for him to slide something in. If you or your secretary accidentally pulled it from its hiding place, you would have just put it back again as soon as you saw it wasn't what you were looking for."

He was right. She could picture Amado, vacuuming in here, maybe wiping the shelves and the woodwork with a dusting cloth. Reaching into his pocket and slipping something between the papers. Hidden in plain sight. She poked her hair into place. Tried to get her mouth around the unpalatable truth. "It's not looking good for Amado, is it? I mean, if he was hiding something important from whoever snatched him."

He looked at her. "No. It isn't."

She rubbed her arm. Once in a while, she wished Russ would sugar-coat things for her. "Why wouldn't he just come to the police, if he had seen something illegal? Or come to me? I would have helped him." She looked at her hands. Folded them up tight. "I could have helped him."

Russ smiled a little. "You did everything you could, darlin'. You gave him a job and a place to live and you beat the crap out of the Christies when they tried to attack him."

"I defended myself," she said. She brought her fists up, shoulder width, knuckles up and knuckles down, as if she carried an unseen oaken shaft. "I wish I had been there when whoever it was came to my house." She looked up at Russ. "If I had only gone home an hour earlier-half an hour."

She was shocked when he took one of her hands, folding his fingers over hers.

"Thank God you weren't there. Because I know you, and I know you wouldn't have let him go without a fight. And whoever has him, Clare, they're bad people. I don't know if you could've run them off with a cross and a candlestick." He lowered her hand without releasing it. Tugged her closer. "Though if anyone could…"

"What are you doing?" She sounded like a high school girl behind the bleachers, breathless and naïve.

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 dealing 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 wanted 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."

He climbed into the back of the MKPD ambulance and emerged a minute later, zipping himself into a pale blue jumpsuit. He glanced around the edge of the ambulance as they passed, then did a double-take. He turned to Russ. "It's that minister again!" He looked again to where Clare was talking with the boys. "Have you checked her out? It's not unheard of for perpetrators to come back to the scene of the crime, you know."

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "She's here because the victim worked for her church."

"Have you investigated her thoroughly?" Scheeler asked.

"Uh…" Not as thoroughly as I want to.

"Because a clerical collar can hide a lot."

Clare's neck bared, her eyes closed, the hot pulse in her throat-Christ. He adjusted his pants under the guise of redistributing the weight of his rig. He was as bad as one of those seventeen-year-old boys, creeping around the old stones, hoping to score. Worse. He knew better.

The area was lit up like a used-car lot with the additional lamps Lyle and Kevin had set up. "Doc Scheeler," Lyle said. Kevin was stringing police-line tape around trees and stones. Lyle stepped over the tape and held it down for the medical examiner. "Hadley's on her way. And the state tech team, although they say it may be another hour."

"Let's see what we can ascertain before they get here." Scheeler snapped his gloves on. They walked one after the other, in Lyle's footsteps. Russ kept his eyes moving as he pulled on his purple gloves, hoping against hope to see a hair, a fiber, a track, anything that might-

They stopped. Russ stepped around the pathologist for a better view. Scheeler sucked in his cheeks. "Holy Mother of God," he said. Russ lifted his eyes and met Lyle's. The older man looked as grim as Russ had ever seen him.

"All right," Scheeler said. "All right. Let's see what he can tell us." He opened his case and knelt, laying it next to the body. He began removing instruments and evidence bags.

"The VFW was up here on the third," Lyle said, "putting in flags. We may be able to place someone on the scene later than that, but that's a positive."

"Dumped," Russ said. "Already dead."

"Probably," Scheeler said from where he knelt. "The ground's so dry, it would have soaked up a lot, but active bleeding would have stained all these dead pine needles." He slid one long, rust-colored needle from beneath the body and held it up. "Dry," he said. "And unstained. When did he go missing?"

"June twenty-third," Lyle said.

"So. Two weeks."

"How long has he been dead?" Russ asked.

"Very preliminary estimate, twenty-four to thirty-six hours." The ME's assured voice thinned out. "Whoever did this kept him alive for a long time."

A silence followed that observation. After a while, Lyle said, "Different gun than the other three."

"I can tell," Russ said. Whatever had finally put Esfuentes out of his misery was a lot bigger than a.22.

"They're not just getting rid of witnesses. They wanted information," Lyle said.

"Jesus. You think?"

Lyle turned, his expression stung. Russ waved a hand in apology. "Sorry. I'm just… yeah. Information. If he had been meant as a warning, he would've turned up someplace a lot more public than this."

"Whatever they wanted to know, this poor bastard couldn't tell them," Scheeler said. He gently lifted one hand with a slender steel rod. "This was done while he was alive. After the third finger, he would have told them anything." The medical examiner slipped an evidence bag over the hand, concealing it from sight. "Who in God's name was this kid?"

Russ's throat tightened. "Nobody. Just a hardworking farm boy who came north for a decent job. He thought we were keeping him safe."

"We did everything we could at the time." MacAuley's voice was rough. "Don't start second-guessing yourself."

It was good advice. Russ had passed it on to more than one young officer in his day. It didn't make him feel any better.

"Russ?"

He snapped around at the sound of Clare's voice. He could just see her outline in the unlit dimness behind the police tape, silhouetted against the whirl of white, red, and blue lights in the distance. He strode toward her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't want to interrupt. It's just that the boys have left, and I didn't know"-he was close enough to make out her face, now-"nobody told me. I wanted to find out." He stopped in front of her. The shivering police tape drew a line between them. "Is it definitely Amado?"

He balled up his hands to keep from putting his arms around her. "Yeah. It is."

"Oh, God." She looked up at him. "Are you sure?" Before he could say anything, she answered herself. "Of course you're sure." She looked away. Wiped her eyes with both hands. "Can I see him? I won't touch anything or get in the way. I just want to-"

"No," he said.

"I've seen dead bodies before, Russ." She straightened her spine. "I won't break down."

"No. Listen," this time he didn't stop himself. He gathered her against him, holding her tightly, hating to be the one to tell her. "Clare, he was tortured. Before he was killed. It wasn't-" He shook his head. "I don't want you to see-Christ, nobody should have to see something like this."

He felt her inhale. Then stillness. Finally, she said, "Are you all right?" Her voice was unsteady.

"Yeah. Or I will be." He took her shoulders and pushed her to arm's length. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For last winter. For letting go. For treating you the way I did. I've been an asshole, Clare, but I love you, and I swear to God, I'd rather die myself than see you hurt." Lyle's words about letting the press know there was nothing to be found at St. Alban's took on a new and terrible urgency. "Whatever the hell piece of information we're missing, these guys looking for it want it bad. And they're junkyard-dog vicious. I don't want you alone until we've found them. Go to the Ellises' house, get your deacon to move in with you, whatever you have to so you're not by yourself."

"I can't promise that." He couldn't tell if it was anger or anguish in her voice.

"Russ!" Lyle called.

"Please, Clare. I don't expect you to do anything because I ask you to." She flinched at that. "But do it for Amado. His death at least gives us a warning. Don't waste it."

"Russ!" Lyle was impatient.

He left her with one glance over his shoulder. Walked back into the circle of cold light, inching his fingers into his glove once more. All around, the oak and maple leaves whispered and hissed in the wind.

"Take a look at this," Lyle said. He and Kevin-pale, stiff-faced, but functioning-had rolled the body to one side. Doc Scheeler, kneeling, was tweezing some sort of short hairs or fibers from where they had crusted on the blood-soaked shirt. There were a lot of them, black and pale golden and tan where they weren't stained with blood.

"What are they?" Russ asked.

Scheeler held a small tuft up before slipping it into an evidence bag. "I can't be certain until I inspect this under the microscope, but I'm pretty sure it's hair. He brought it with him; it isn't on the pine needles beneath the body. I'm just finding them in one area, here, where the body rested on the ground, but that may not signify much. They could have appeared elsewhere and then blown off while he was exposed up here."

"Maybe he was laid someplace where there was a lot of hair," Lyle said.

"Or wrapped in a rug or blanket," Russ said. "That would jibe with his being transported here. If somebody didn't want to get blood all over the trunk of his car."

"A dog blanket," Kevin said. He looked at Russ. "You know. You put an old blanket on the sofa or on the backseat of a car? So the dog won't shed on the good stuff underneath."

Russ examined the hairs again. Sharp-tipped, two or three inches long. Black and tan. He remembered their last visit to the Christies: Kevin hurtling into the cruiser, half an inch away from being savaged. He looked at the young officer. Saw him nod.

"German shepherds," Russ said.

X

This time, they went at dawn, warrant in hand. They had the animal control officer with them, a rawhide woman whose sleepy expression concealed an ability to think fast and move faster. P.J. loved animals, but Russ had no doubt she could put down the German shepherds if needed. He had dated one of her older sisters in high school. All the Adams girls had a ruthless streak a mile wide.

P.J. had said the dogs were likely to be asleep by morning, and she was right. Kevin opened the gate slowly and quietly this time, watching the drive every second, but no ravening beasts showed up to try and take a chunk out of him. The sky arched overhead, rose and pearl, and grasshoppers whirred out of the grass as they drove up the lane.

Russ parked in the same spot he had two weeks before. This time he could see how badly the house and barn needed painting. The Christies had inherited a lot-he glanced at the century-old maples shading the house and the fields and woods falling away in every direction-but they were lousy stewards.

Getting out of the car, he could hear the sheep bleating. Another car door ca-chunked, and Lyle walked up to stand at his side. "If anybody's hiding in the sheep pen, you're going in this time," he said.

"Are you kidding? That's what we brought Kevin for." Russ turned away from the house. Kevin and Eric were in backup positions and P.J. was readying a trank gun, muzzles and restraint straps dangling off her belt. "Ready?"

"Yep."

They mounted the porch steps. Russ rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He rang it again. The door jerked open, revealing a twenty-something blonde in a baggy T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Her face was creased from sleep. "What is it?" she asked.

Russ dredged the sister's name out of his memory. "Isabel?" he said. "We'd like to speak to your brothers."

She blinked several times and rubbed her face. "Why?"

MacAuley pushed against the door, opening it farther. She stepped back. "We want to ask them about Amado Esfuentes."

She came awake. "Amado? Why?"

"He's been killed," Russ said. "We believe your brothers may have some knowledge of the murder."

She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide and white-edged. Oh, hell. Looks like Kevin was wrong about their relationship-or lack thereof.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. "Are you sure it was Amado Esfuentes? Not one of the others?"

"We've positively ID'd him," Russ said. "I'm sorry."

"He was tortured." MacAuley had dropped his usual easygoing persona. "For information he may have possessed. Over many days. He must have thanked whoever put a bullet in his head."

Isabel Christie made a sound like an animal in a trap. She backed away even farther. Russ stepped into the house.

"You knew him, didn't you?" He kept his voice sympathetic.

She nodded.

"I met him a couple of times, too. He was a good-hearted, hardworking young man, with his whole life ahead of him. He didn't deserve to die like that." He bent down so he was speaking to her face-to-face. "Will you help us?"

She nodded.

"Where are your brothers?"

She took a deep breath. "Bruce…" Her voice wavered. She stopped. When she started again, it was steady. "Bruce is in the fifth wheel next door." From the corner of his eye, Russ could see Lyle turn and point Kevin and Eric to the trailer. "Neil's upstairs. Donald and Kathy were fighting last night, and he took off after she locked him out of their bedroom. He's prob'ly at his ex's house. Desiree Dwyer."

"I thought she was out of town."

She pointed in the direction of the dining room. "Different ex." Russ and Lyle followed, skirting the long table and heavy Victorian chairs, into the minuscule back hallway. A narrow staircase rose steeply to a windowed alcove.

"Isabel," Russ said. "Could you call your brother downstairs?"

She looked at him. There were purple shadows beneath her eyes that hadn't been there when they arrived. "You think they did it?" she whispered.

"Evidence with the body points toward your brothers, yeah."

She took another deep breath. Her face smoothed, became a mask of normalcy. She faced the second floor. "Neil!" she yelled.

"Wha'?" A single snarling male voice, muffled by a door.

"Giddown here!"

"What the hell for? Jesus Christ, you know what time it is?"

She took a few steps up until she was level with the second-floor landing. "The ram's busted the gate again. He's at the ewes."

They heard feet thudding on the floor, accompanied by steady cursing. "Donald!" The unseen voice-Neil-bellowed. "Git your lazy ass out of bed. The ram's out!"

A door thudded open against a wall. "Shut up!" a woman yelled.

Russ winced. "The fiancée," he told Lyle.

"He ain't in here," she went on. "He's coolin' off downstairs."

"No, he's not," Isabel said loudly. "He went to Desiree's."

"Uh-oh," Russ said.

"What?" The shriek rose like a siren. "That no-good, belly-crawling, rat bastard son of a bitch-"

Isabel ducked out of the stairwell. Russ and Lyle backpedaled as someone large and heavy crashed down the steps. Neil Christie emerged, pulling a T-shirt over his head. He stopped when he saw them. "What the hell?"

"Neil, we want you to come with us," Russ said. "We want to ask you some questions about Amado Esfuentes."

The big man's jaw unhinged, then clamped shut. He narrowed his eyes. "You arrestin' me?"

"Not yet," Lyle said.

Neil swung his head, left, right, like a bull readying for a charge. Russ hoped he wasn't going to try to take them. Then his gaze fell on Isabel, pressed against the dining room wall. "You," her brother said. "You let ' em in. You -the ram ain't out, is he? You lying bitch!" He raised one meaty hand in a fist. Isabel cringed.

"Touch her and we'll have you up on assault," Lyle said.

"C'mon, Neil." Russ dropped his voice some. Confidential. Persuasive. "You don't want any trouble, and neither do we. You come on down with us and answer a few questions. You'll be back in time for lunch."

He could see the wheels and pulleys clanking slowly in Christie's brain. But he was surprised when Neil turned on Isabel again. "Is Don really at Desiree's? Or is that you lyin' again? Do they already have him?"

"No! It's the truth!"

"We'll pick up your brother from his girlfriend's house," Russ said.

At the same moment, Neil said, "So it's just me? God damn!" and swung at the girl.

Lyle, who was closer, lunged forward, wrapping both arms around Christie's midsection and heaving backward. Isabel ducked. Russ was unsnapping his cuffs from his belt, yelling, "Get his arm," when a shrieking harpy flew from the stairwell and landed square on Lyle, screeching, "Leave him alone, you rat bastard son of a bitch!" Lyle staggered and released Neil, struggling to shake off the woman clawing and punching him.

Isabel ran. Neil pivoted after her. Russ slammed into him with a shoulder block, but his angle was wrong to put Christie down. Instead, he jolted sideways against the table, which scraped over the wooden floor.

The fiancée was screaming nonstop, and over the din Russ could hear the rumble of many footsteps overhead. Oh, no, not the kids, too. In this house, they were as likely to join in as to be traumatized.

"Lyle, can't you-" Russ began. Neil reeled around and nailed him in the breastbone with a ham-sized fist, knocking him into the sideboard. Every last molecule of air exploded out of his body as the clash and clank of dishes added to the noise. Russ managed to roll out of the way as Christie leaped like a TV wrestler coming into the ring. The big man landed with a bone-rattling thump on the floor. Russ heaved up to his hands and knees and threw himself on Christie's back. Still gasping for air, he dropped all his weight onto the man's arm.

Lyle howled. "Jesus hell! She bit me!" Russ heard the crack of bone on bone and the high-pitched swearing broke off. The fiancée thudded to the floor next to Neil.

Russ wrestled a first cuff onto Neil's wrist and yanked the man's arm back, not much caring what damage he did. As Neil hollered and flailed, Russ snapped the second cuff on. He sat up, still on Christie's back, still trying to catch his breath.

Lyle was cuffing the unconscious Kathy. "Damn," he said. "I hate to hit a woman."

"Why the hell'd she go after you?"

Isabel peeped around the door, ready to bolt again if Neil managed to shake off Russ's 220 pounds and tear loose of the restraints. "She was sleeping with Neil, too. Donald doesn't know."

Neil bucked beneath Russ. "You goddamn trouble-making bitch!" His yell was muffled by the carpet. "I shoulda let you go with that Mexican! You ain't worth it! What we done for you? You ain't worth it!"

XI

"How does that feel?" Lyle gestured toward Russ's chest with his mug of coffee. In the dispatch room behind them, Kevin was filling Harlene in on his thrilling capture. Since Bruce Christie had nodded, called his lawyer, and gotten in the cruiser without fuss or mess for Eric and Kevin, it was going to be a short story.

Russ touched his sternum. It was tender, with an ache that went right through him. How did it feel? Like letting go. "Sore," he said.

"You ought to have it looked at. Make sure you didn't crack anything."

Russ pointed to the bandage swathing Lyle's hand. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Hell, I'm going in for a tetanus shot soon as we're done here. I want P.J. to impound that woman for ten days to make sure she doesn't have rabies."

"And we were worried about the dogs."

Hadley Knox came in from the squad room. She looked at them like a mom checking out two kids who've fallen suspiciously silent. "Children and Family Services are sending a caseworker to the Christie farm."

"Good," Russ said.

"Ms. Adams called in. The German shepherds are in the shelter for the time being." She raised her voice for the benefit of Kevin, who had drifted in to see what was up. "She says they're really sweet dogs."

Lyle snickered. "Maybe it's just you, Kevin."

Russ swigged his coffee, wishing there were some way to add a couple shots of espresso and double the caffeine content. He had gotten four hours of sleep on one of the old cell cots downstairs, waiting for the warrant to come through. He had sent Lyle home from the Muster Field, but there was no way he had gotten more than five. By comparison, Knox and Kevin glowed with vim and vigor. He had been that age once. A long time ago.

"I want Noble to take the guns to the ballistics lab." They had seized four sidearms that might match the caliber that had killed Amado.

Lyle nodded. "Didja see the twenty-twos?"

"Yep." The Christies had an arsenal worthy of a militia.

"I wish to hell we could get those to ballistics."

"Take it up with Judge Ryswick." The judge had a horror of general warrants. When he wrote large caliber, he meant it, and the fact they had three unsolved killings by.22s didn't impress him.

Eric came in and took in the crowd. "What? We finally got good coffee?"

"Not a chance," Lyle said.

"Eric," Russ said, "You've been working the Christies all along. I want you to question Bruce and Donald."

Eric nodded. "What about Neil and the girlfriend?"

"They can go on the back burner while they're getting booked and waiting for a bond hearing. I'm going to my mom's for a shower and a change." He checked his watch. "I'll be back before noon." He caught Eric's sleeve before he left. "Find a wedge. Maybe the cheating fiancée thing, maybe imply one of 'em's cutting a deal to roll on the others. The Christies are tight; if you can split 'em apart, you'll have 'em."

Eric nodded, then left for the interrogation room. Russ took another drink of coffee. "Lyle, go to the hospital and get that bite looked at. Then head home and get some sleep." Lyle opened his mouth to protest. "Just go," Russ said. "I'm getting some, too."

Lyle shrugged. Slouched toward the squad-room door. "That's not what I heard."

Russ ignored the remark. "Knox, I want you to head over to the Christies'. Check in with the social worker and see if you can get anything useful from the sister or the kids. Kevin-" His youngest officer straightened, his expression bright and eager. Good God, it was no wonder the Christies' dogs went after him. The boy was a human Irish setter. "You're on patrol."

Kevin's face dimmed. Knox frowned.

Russ sighed. "What?"

"No offense, Chief, but are you sending me to talk with the kids because I'm a woman?"

"I'm sending you because I think you're the best officer for the job. Just like I'm putting Kevin on patrol because Lyle and I are beat up and sleep-deprived and not much good to anyone right now. Look." He gathered them both in with his voice, focusing their attention. "This case has been one horror after another. It's been long hours and frustration and leads going nowhere. And you two have performed admirably through it all. I'm proud of you both. I'm proud to serve with you. And I know whatever I need you to do, you're going to do it. Competently and professionally." He drained his mug and set it down. "Now let's go do what we gotta do."

XII

The gate to the Christies' farm had been left open. Hadley jounced her cruiser up the rutted dirt drive. On one side, golden hayfields rolled away to the distant forest's edge. On the other, past an ancient stone wall, sheep drifted over the green grass like dusty clouds. It looked like a picture out of Genny's children's Bible. All that was missing was the Good Shepherd.

She parked on the grass at the other side of the house, beneath a spreading maple that also shaded a junky little trailer. She should stay on the drive, but she knew if she left the cruiser in the sun it would be an oven by the time she got back in, and the AC didn't work so well in this unit.

She got out. The heat pressed against her, dry and windless. She plucked her blouse away from her body. If it felt like this at midmorning, it was going to be a breathlessly hot day.

She crossed the drive and mounted the porch steps. The windows were closed against the heat. She rang the bell. She heard a murmur of voices. She squinted, trying to see through the shirred curtains in the door. She knocked. "Hello!" she said, loud enough to be heard inside. "Millers Kill Police."

The door cracked open. A young woman peeked out. She had strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and ghost-ridden eyes.

"Hi," Hadley said. "I'm Officer Knox of the Millers Kill Police. Can I-"

"It's not a good time," the woman said. "I have guests."

"I know about the caseworker from Children and Family. I'm the-uh, liaison with the department." Hadley smiled reassuringly. "Are you-"

The door shut in her face. She thought of Hudson's favorite Elmer Fudd line: How wude! She banged on the door, insistent this time. "Ma'am," she said.

The door jerked open. A short, broad, weasel-faced man stood in front of her. His protruding eyes made him look like Peter Lorre, updated with jail-house chic clothing and tattoos, visible on his fingers, which were braced against the jamb to bar her way. "Look," he said, in a barely accented voice. "She doesn't want to talk to you right now-"

She saw it, the moment when he recognized her, and realized she recognized him. She hurtled off the porch as he was yelling something in Spanish. She half landed in the straggly bush below, fought her way free, and sprinted toward her unit. She heard glass shatter, glanced over her shoulder, and saw the barrel of an enormous revolver tracking her from the upper half of one of the windows. She dove behind her squad car as the thing went off. A bullet smacked into the maple, showering her with wet splinters. She wrenched the door open and clawed at the mic. "Dispatch!" she yelled. "Harlene? This bastard's shooting at me!"

XIII

Russ had just pulled into his mother's drive when his cell phone rang. Hell. He checked the number. The ant-sized hope that Clare might be calling was squashed when he saw it was the station. He flipped the phone open. "Van Alstyne here."

"Chief." The usually unflappable Harlene sounded stressed. "We have an officer under fire."

His heart stopped. "Who?" Images of Kevin, a robbery, Paul, a traffic stop gone south.

"Hadley Knox."

Oh, Christ, no. The rawest person on the force. He threw the truck in reverse and rolled down the window. "Where?"

"The Christie place."

What? He pushed the crowd of questions away. Reached up and clamped the light to the top of the truck. "Give me a sitrep."

"Gunfire from a three-fifty-seven Magnum. Other weapons unknown. There may be another man inside, she couldn't say for sure."

He rolled the window back up. Flicked on the light and siren. Tromped on the gas. "Unknown number of women and children inside as hostages." Harlene raised her voice to be heard over the siren's whoop. "Kevin and Lyle are on their way. Eric's coming from the jail, SWAT team's scrambling."

"I'll be there soonest." He thought of Hadley Knox, with her threadbare tote filled with criminal law texts. Her panicky voice: I haven't practiced with a shoulder holster! "Harlene," he said. "Send an ambulance."

XIV

He didn't know you could get speeds like that out of a Ford 250. He went airborne on the Christies' drive, bounced, ground against the dirt and gravel, and there was the house, and there was Knox's unit, and there was Knox, sprinting across the side yard-no vest on, for chrissakes-and there, in the broken and whole glass, an outline, and a hand, and a gun.

He slewed the truck to a stop and tumbled out the door, his gun already in hand, and fired at the porch roof. It was a wild shot, unaimed, but the guy inside ducked out of sight and Knox rolled safely to a stop against the house's foundation. He took a better stance behind the hood, figuring his engine block would stop even a.357.

"Millers Kill Police," he said loudly. "Put your weapon down and walk out with your hands on top of your head." This suggestion was greeted with a torrent of obscenities. From the corner of his eye, he could see Knox flopping around. "You okay, Knox?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes, sir."

"Stay right there. Don't move." He could see something behind the window. It was hard to make out in the shadow of the porch. Then he saw an eye, the side of a face, the gunman scoping things out. Russ dropped an inch lower, sighting him.

"You shoot one more time and I swear I'll cap one of 'em here," the man screamed. "I'll blow one of these bitches' heads off!"

O-kay. He did his best work talking, anyway. He waved his empty hand in the air and ostentatiously laid his sidearm on the hood. He heard the rumble and whine of an engine, and Kevin's unit popped over the horizon, coming in too fast, screeching to a stop in a cloud of dust next to the truck. Lyle shoved Kevin out the driver's side and crawled over him. They were both, thank God, in their tac vests.

Lyle scanned the barn, the house, the side yard, the trailer. "Just in the house?"

"Looks like," Russ said.

Lyle glanced at his empty hands. "Forget your piece?"

"He's threatened to shoot hostages if we fire."

"What's going on?" the gunman yelled.

"Sounds Latino," Lyle said.

He hummed in agreement. Then spoke loudly. "My deputy here says the state SWAT team is on the way. They're not interested in talking to you. But I am."

"Screw you!"

"C'mon, man, talk to me." He started his patter. The first thing was to get him talking. A guy who's talking isn't shooting. The second was to be his friend. I'm on your side. We're in this together. "C'mon," he said. "You put your gun down, I put my gun down, we'll call it drunk and disorderly." He tried to remember how many kids were there. Donald had five or six by a string of girlfriends, bouncing back and forth between homes. His oldest had a kid of her own, though, and she lived with him. Plus the foul-mouthed fiancée's bunch.

The gunman had moved away from the window. He-or was it another voice?-was yelling at someone in the interior of the house. He needed more info. He caught Knox's eye, signaled her to check out the back. She nodded and rolled to the ground, belly-crawling away from them like a marine in an obstacle course.

"Why doesn't she just duck down and walk?" Lyle said. "They can't see her if she sticks close to the house."

"Probably taught her that at Basic."

Lyle huffed. "We'll be another year unlearnin' her after she's through there."

If she survived the afternoon. "Any way to get her a tac vest?"

"Two in the trunk of her cruiser."

They both looked at her squad car, maybe ten yards from where they were parked and another fifteen from the house. Open ground. No cover.

"Get Kevin to the tail of your unit. If I can distract this guy, he can sprint to her car, grab the vest, and meet her at the side of the house."

"And what about you?"

He twitched the question away. The shooter reappeared in the window. "Hey!" Russ said. The third thing was to get him to say yes. Didn't matter to what. One yes leads to another. "It's hotter'n hell today, isn't it?" The shadowy figure stared at him. "Hard to keep things cool when it's ninety degrees."

"You think this is hot? This ain't nothin'."

"For you, maybe. Me, I'm dying out here." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kevin taking up position at the back of his unit. "I could use something cold and wet. What about you? You want a cold beer? I can bring a six-pack up to the porch, and we can talk."

The guy laughed. "You think I'm an idiot? Whadda you take me for?"

Russ spread his hands. "Okay. You know what we want. We want everybody here to walk away unharmed. We want a win-win solution. You tell me what you want."

The shooter ducked away from the window for a moment. Russ glanced at Lyle. Lyle held up two fingers. Two guys. At least.

"You know what I want? I want our property back. These rednecks stole something from us, and I want it back."

Russ got that sensation in his head, like bottle rockets popping off, one after the other. "The directory of dealer names," he said, tossing out another wild guess.

The man-the Punta Diablos foot soldier-hissed in surprise. A hit, a palpable hit. "What you say?" the shooter asked after a moment. He'd be a lousy poker player.

"We arrested the Christie brothers this morning. You know how it goes. Any valuable information goes on the bargaining table."

"Son of a bitch monkey-balled mother-" Russ let the guy rave on. He'd be a good match for Donald's latest fiancée. He almost smiled, until the last bottle rocket went off, and he realized it was the Punta Diablos, and not the large and thugly Christies, who had done those horrible things to Amado Esfuentes. These guys are junkyard-dog vicious, he'd told Clare. And now they had an unknown number of women and children at their mercy.

The shooter was going on about how you couldn't trust anyone. Russ wasn't sure if the rant was directed at him or at the unknown accomplices inside, but he was getting worried. These guys were trapped. That's when dangerous animals attacked. Where the hell was Knox? Had something happened to her?

Then she appeared from the back of the house. He kept his face forward, fixed intently on the Punta Diablo point man, who was working himself up in a major way. He slipped one hand off the hood of his truck and signaled to Kevin. Nothing. He signaled again. No long tall streak of red loping toward Knox's squad car.

Then Kevin's voice was behind him, in his ear. "There's a dead woman out back," he said quietly. "Shot in the chest."

Russ thought about hapless, knocked-around Isabel Christie, with her strawberry-blond hair and her sad eyes. What a goddamn waste. He suddenly felt twenty years older.

"Chief?" Kevin kept his voice low.

"Have Harlene patch you to the SWAT team. Brief 'em. Then get ready to run for that vest."

"Roger that." Kevin sprinted for his cruiser, bent double. He flung open the door and lay on the seat, reaching for the mic.

"What's going on?" the Punta Diablo guy asked. "What's he doing on the radio?"

"I just told him to ask the state troopers to stay back a ways," Russ said. "I want you and me to have the time we need to talk our way out of this thing." He kept his face forward and rattled on, good faith, blah-blah-blah, listening as Kevin briefed the state assault team sergeant he'd been connected to. It was informative, detailed, and short. The kid was finally learning to get to the point.

"You tell those bastards to stay away from us," the shooter yelled. "Anybody tries to mess with us, they gotta go through one of these kids to do it!"

Kevin hung up the mic. "Fifteen-twenty minutes."

Shit. Might as well be tomorrow, for all the good they were going to do.

The guy disappeared from the window. Inside the house, a woman screamed. "Knox!" He grabbed his gun off the hood. "What's he doing in there?"

She jumped up like a jackrabbit and looked in the window. Ran to the next one. He flapped at Kevin. "The vest! Go! Go!"

"He's holding a kid," Knox yelled. "He's-oh, shit, no!"

This was going straight down the crapper. "Are there other shooters?"

"I can't tell!" she screamed. "Maybe in the front-"

The window above Knox exploded. She dropped, and for one sickening moment he thought she'd been hit, but then he saw she was crouched, her hands over the back of her neck. Kevin had popped the trunk and was yanking a vest out. "Go through the back," Russ yelled. "Go through the back!"

Kevin waved acknowledgment and tore through the side yard. Knox rose and ran after him. They disappeared around the corner.

"Don't move," Lyle said. "I'm getting you the other one." He raced toward Knox's unit.

Up on the porch, the door flew open. A teenaged girl with a baby under her arm made a dash for it. The shooter lunged forward, long rope-muscled arm extended, and snagged her by her collar. She rebounded, gagged, and almost dropped the baby. Her captor dragged her backward by the neck.

Russ broke cover and ran for the house. Lyle was shouting something at him, but he couldn't hear it over the thudding of his feet, the rasp of his breath, the crying and yelling inside.

He took the porch steps in two strides and slammed through the door with the side of his body, leaving him face-to-face with the open double doors and the wild-eyed shooter, tattooed fingers, just like Knox had said, backing away with a squirming, squalling teen and her baby as a shield.

"Police! Drop your weapon," Russ roared: habit, not hope.

"Drop your weapon!" The Punta Diablo guy had a monster.357 Taurus pointed at the girl. Russ kept his Glock lined and sighted for a head shot. The gangbanger started to look scared. It was damn hard to keep your gun pointed away from a man when you could see his bore drilling you between the eyes.

Then the girl lunged to the side, yanking her captor off balance. His instinct took over; he swung his.357 toward Russ, arms wide, chest unguarded. Russ dropped his Glock three inches and squeezed twice. He dove right as the Magnum went off, but the young man was already crumpling, the gun falling from his tattooed fingers.

The girl and her baby ran screaming into the dining room. Russ hit a brown corduroy chair, the weight of his body skidding it across the floor. He stumbled upright, swung toward where the shooter's body had fallen, saw Isabel Christie sagging, unconscious, against the couch. And then a baseball bat smashed into his chest.

Russ turned, not understanding, and another bat struck his upper thigh, white-hot pain streaking along his hip, and he slipped, his leg useless, and saw him in the doorway to the front hall, the second man. Russ saw the gun pointed at him, tried to raise his Glock, too slow, too slow. Russ squeezed off a round but the next shot punched him in the chest and blew him over.

He heard more shots, three, four, like a movie playing in a different room. His awareness burrowed inward, as if all the universe were six feet three inches long and contained within his skin. Labored breathing. Sluggish heart. Burning hip. Throbbing chest.

Lyle's face dropped into view for a moment. He didn't bother Russ with a lot of talking, just turned and started ripping his uniform blouse open. Lyle. His friend. Why hadn't he forgiven him? Instead of carrying his grudge around like an old set of keys. He closed his eyes.

"Call nine-one-one," Lyle said to someone. Russ's skin was clammy. He shivered convulsively. The wooden floor beneath him was winter-cold.

"Get me something I can use for compresses," Lyle said.

He tried to breathe in, but there was a bubble blocking his throat, like swallowing inside out. He gurgled and hacked.

"Hurry, Knox!" Lyle's hands were cradling his skull, turning his head so he could spit. Liquid gushed out of his mouth. He could breathe again. Lyle's hands went away.

"Oh, Jesus," Knox said. She didn't sound so good.

"Shut up," Lyle said. "Get these civilians out of here."

There were noises, children, but they seemed increasingly far away. The pain was everything. The only thing. He didn't want that. He didn't want that to be the last thing. He opened his eyes. Lyle was on his knees, stripping his belt out of his pants. "Didn't know… you felt that way," Russ managed.

Lyle's hands stuttered for a second. "You should be so lucky," he said. He finished pulling his belt free. "I'm gonna tourniquet your thigh, slow down this bleeding. It's gonna hurt like a ring-tailed bitch." He bent over, out of Russ's line of sight, and then a five-thousand-volt electrical shock went through his leg.

"Je… fu… Chr…" Russ gasped. The pain curled him forward, as if he could rise and escape it. He caught sight of his own chest.

"Lay back," Lyle said. He did. Lyle laid something over his chest. "I'm gonna compress you until the EMTs arrive. Won't be long."

He lifted his hand, stopping Lyle with a strengthless motion. "Lyle." He could feel another bubble rising in his throat. He wanted to say this before it choked him off. "I'm sorry." He opened his hand. "Friend."

Lyle took his hand and squeezed too hard. His face pinched. "I don't wanna hear any goddamn last words or deathbed apologies from you, you hear?"

He tried to say something, but the rushing liquid filled his throat, his mouth, his nose. He turned his head and retched, coughed, spluttered.

As soon as his mouth was clear, Lyle leaned on him, crushing him, hurting him. Russ tried to bat him away but he didn't have anything left. It was heavy, so heavy, like cold concrete burying him. He heaved for air. Lyle was going to suffocate him trying to save him. "Can't… breathe…" he got out.

"I think you've punctured a lung," Lyle said. "The EMTs will set you to rights. Listen." He heard his breath, his heart, his blood taking its last few trips around the system. "They're almost here."

It wasn't Lyle. It was him. He was dying. He thought of Clare. Oh, love. I wish we had had more time. He was going to die, and she would be left with hateful, angry words as their last good-bye. Already forgotten, he wanted to say. I always knew what was in your heart. Now, right now, the slate was wiped clean.

"Lyle… tell Clare…" He struggled to get enough air to push out the words. "Tell her…"

"You can tell her yourself when you see her," Lyle said.

He inhaled again, but it wasn't enough. His lungs burned. His head buzzed. She would know. She would have to know.

"Russ?" Lyle's voice receded into the distance, with the children and the gunshots. "Don't you die on me, Russ!"

So, how do you pray? he'd asked her once.

She'd thought about it a long moment. She always listened, always took his questions seriously. Say what you believe, she said. Say what you're thankful for. Say what you love.

He'd never been one for prayer. But there was a last time for everything. "Clare," he said. Then everything stopped.

XV

No official church involvement, that was the dictat. Volunteers, on their own, could work with the migrant farmhands. That's what they had agreed on. Well, it was her day off. She could do what she wanted on her day off. And if she wanted to drive to the Rehabilitation Center and pick up Lucia Pirone for a sedate drive around the countryside, that was her own business. If they happened to stop in at a few farms and check in with the Spanish-speaking workers, that was her own damn business, too.

"You're sure this isn't going to get you in trouble with your bishop?" Sister Lucia shifted in the passenger seat. The pin in her hip was healed enough for the center to release her for the afternoon, but it was plain it hadn't healed enough to be comfortable.

"Absolutely sure," Clare said. "If he doesn't find out."

Sister Lucia laughed. "I like the way you think."

"We're going to have to find a better solution, though. Sooner rather than later. I'm away one weekend out of four as it is. Smuggling you out of the center three days a month doesn't cut it."

"You know Christophe St. Laurent? From Sacred Heart? He's willing to drum up volunteers, but he'd like to talk to you at some point and see if any of your people would consider continuing on, even if the outreach isn't sponsored by your church."

In the rearview mirror, a whirl of red and white bloomed. She glanced at the speedometer; caught up in conversation, she had eased off the gas. She was now going the legal speed. She steered for the shoulder.

The first car blew past her at a speed that rattled her windows. A second car, and then an SUV, flew in its wake. State police. No sirens. Responding to a call.

Her chest squeezed, as if someone had wrapped an unfriendly hand around her heart.

Then she heard the whoop-whoop-whoop of an emergency vehicle. She stomped on the brake, grinding her front wheels into the dirt at the shoulder. "What on earth?" Sister Lucia threw out a hand to brace herself on the dashboard.

Clare turned around in time to see the ambulance crest the rise behind her, blue lights beating in time with the pulse of her blood. From the corner of her eye, she could see Sister Lucia cross herself.

The vehicle blazed past, almost too fast to read MILLERS KILL EMERGENCY on its side.

"Do you think-" Sister Lucia started. She read the papers like everyone else. "Could they have found another body?"

Clare shook her head. "Those weren't Millers Kill police cruisers. They don't normally get the state police involved, unless they need one of their special units, like crime scene or a dive team or"-the penny fell as she said the words-"tactical response."

"Which is?"

"The men who show up if there's a hostage situation or officers under fire." Clare released the brake and tromped on the gas, jumping her Subaru back onto the road, sparing a glance for oncoming traffic only after it would've been too late to avoid it.

She accelerated down the country highway. Sister Lucia kept one hand wedged against the dash and grabbed her armrest with the other. "Perhaps," she shouted-the open windows that had let in a pleasant breeze at forty miles an hour were shrieking wind tunnels at sixty-five-"they've found the killer!"

That's what Clare was afraid of. Oh, God, please be with them. Please let the ambulance just be a precaution. Please let nobody be hurt.

She reached an intersection. "Which way?" she asked. "Where'd they go?"

Sister Lucia's hand, soft and powder-dry, settled over her arm. "Wait," she said. "If they came along this road, chances are good they'll return this way as well."

"But it might be too late!"

The nun looked at her, a twist of a smile drying her face. "My dear, what do you think you're going to do?"

"Not sit here and wait to see what happens." Clare spun the wheel, and the Subaru squealed onto Seven Mile Road. Sister Lucia whooped and grabbed for the door handle.

"What if this is the wrong way?" the nun shouted.

"Fly or die," Clare yelled.

Sister Lucia rolled her window up, shutting off half the rush of air. "Remember what I said about fearlessness?"

"Sure do."

"I take it back."

A wail from somewhere, rising, falling. Clare glanced in her rearview mirror. A whirl of blue and white. Another ambulance. She took her foot off the gas and let the Subaru roll, half on, half off, the narrow dirt shoulder. The Corinth ambulance screamed past them, followed by a Millers Kill squad car. Clare caught the driver's blocky outline, but it could have been almost any of them. She kicked the car back up to speed and then some, racing after the emergency vehicles, bombing over the low hills, bouncing into the hollows, slanting way over the lines as she powered through curves.

The ambulance and the cruiser had turned up a skinflint country road and she followed too fast; she skidded, lost her grip on the road, the whole car sliding toward the ditch. She cursed and gave the wheel some slack and trod on the gas, and the tires caught, spinning a shower of shredded Indian paintbrush and buttercups as she surged back onto the asphalt.

She took the turn onto the dirt road a little slower. Roared through a wide-open gate, up and up until she crested and saw the carnival from Hell, ambulances and cop cars and uniforms and guns. Children and trees and peeling clapboards and broken glass. Dust hanging in the air, loud voices, weeping, and the electric-burr sound of radios demanding information.

She hit the brakes and skidded, heeling her car onto the grass at the side of the drive. She leaped out, spun in place, and pointed to Sister Lucia. "Stay here!"

State SWAT team members, ominous in black and armor, stalked across the dooryard and around the house and barn in patterns that made sense only to them. She slowed down, uncertain what was going on, where the center was, the thought dawning that maybe the ambulances were just a precaution, like she had hoped, and she was going to look pretty silly when-then she spotted Kevin Flynn. Standing alone at the bottom of the porch steps. Crying.

Her feet moved her forward even though her head was howling, Run! Run! She had been here before, at this moment. No going back to before. There would only be after. After the diagnosis. After the accident. After hearing whatever terrible thing Kevin was going to tell her.

Hadley Knox ran onto the porch, followed by Eric McCrea. "Flynn!" she yelled, then stared, open-mouthed, at Clare. Movement, voices, behind the officers. McCrea shoved Knox out of the way, and the paramedics emerged, carrying their burden with controlled speed. One of them was rapid-firing unintelligible information into her radio. One of them held a trembling IV bag aloft, and the third balanced a portable heart monitor against the side of the cart, its beep-beep-beep counting out the seconds.

The rest of it she saw as fragments: his sandy hair, the oxygen mask, one boot lolling off the stretcher. Khaki sleeve, blue surgical bandages, red blood. So much blood.

Kevin was sobbing beside her, but she couldn't make a sound. It felt as if her chest was bound and locked.

"Careful, now." Karl, one of the Millers Kill EMTs. "Careful!" They descended the porch stairs, quick and smooth, and as they passed her, she saw his hand, tan, limp, still wearing his wedding ring. Her voice tore free in a wrenching, animal cry.

She lunged after the pallet and Lyle was in the way, more blood, soaked in blood, reeking of it-and he caught her and held her, saying, "Stop it! Stop it," wrapping her and smearing her and marking her with Russ's blood while she howled like a dog.

The steady beep-beep-beep turned into a single warbling alarm. The breath caught in Clare's throat. One of the EMTs swore. They dropped the pallet. Annie ripped a syringe off a Velcro pack and tore it open. Karl threw himself to his knees and began chest compressions, sharp fast pumps that looked like they would snap Russ's already-wounded body in two. The third paramedic moved in, blocking Clare's view, leaving her with only the high, piercing alarm to tell her that Russ was dead.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

Dead. How long? Death was a process, not an on-off switch. She knew that.

For thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

The EMTs communicated in short harsh bursts, microwave information. Annie broke open another syringe.

Thou spreadest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

Kevin's sobs fell to gasps. Silence spread around them like ripples from a pond.

Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup overfloweth.

Was it a minute? Two? The alarm began to sound like an inconsolable cry. A wailing for the dead that will not return.

"Surely"-her voice cracked-"thy goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life?"

The alarm blipped. Blipped, beeped, paused, beeped, and settled into a steady rhythm. Clare sagged against Lyle, whose fingers she finally felt cutting into her arms.

"Go, go!" the third man said. They heaved the pallet up and surged toward the open ambulance doors.

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

"Christ Jesus Almighty," Lyle said, his voice shaking.

"Amen," she said into his shoulder.

He released her. "You fit to drive to the hospital?"

She nodded. "Where are they taking him? Glens Falls?"

"Washington County. One of their ER docs used to work in New Orleans. He's seen more gunshot cases than anyone else in the area."

The ambulance doors slammed shut. The lights and siren started up.

"Go on," he said. "I need a word with the rest of 'em, then I'll be along."

She took a step toward her car. Turned. "Lyle," she said, "what happened?"

"I had a vest for him. Right in my hand." He stared at the gore running down his fingers. "It was right in my hand. But he had to be a goddam hero." He wiped his face into his upper arm. "If he lives, I swear to God I'm going to kick his ass from here to Fort Ticonderoga."

XVI

They were at the scene all day: him and Hadley, Eric and Noble, and four state CSI technicians. Two mortuary vans arrived for the dead gang members and the body of the Children and Family Services caseworker. An assistant DA and a plainclothes investigator from the NYSPD were checking out whether the chief and MacAuley had fired their guns lawfully at the gangbangers. They made Hadley talk to the suit; the rest of the MKPD had bad feelings about state investigators. Emergency counselors from CFS were teary-eyed over the death of their colleague. Relatives came to claim the kids. By phone, an agent from the First District Anti-Gang Task Force and the mayor reminded them they were all eligible for free mental health services after traumatic events. They made Hadley talk to the mayor, too; she had lived in California for fifteen years, and Californians believed in that sort of stuff.

The deputy chief kept them updated with calls to Kevin's cell phone. "He's gone into surgery." That was good. "His heart stopped again." That was bad. "He survived surgery." Hadley and Noble thought that was good. Eric thought it was pretty thin gruel. "Survived?" Eric said. "What's that, the minimal? Like batting.100?"

Kevin didn't say much. Thinking about the chief dying made him feel sick to his stomach. His head was stuffed with death: the sprawled and bloody bodies of the Punta Diablo gang members, the slack-mouthed corpse of the CFS woman, and the mutilated remains of Amado Esfuentes. He couldn't seem to stop tears from rolling down his cheeks at odd moments. One of the staties made a crack, but Eric McCrea dragged him aside and said something to shut him up.

Eventually, they finished. One after another, the counselors and investigators and technicians and morticians rolled away down the drive, until it was only the MKPD and it was time to go.

"Get in the car," Hadley called from behind the wheel of her cruiser.

He was standing in the spot where his squad car had been. "MacAuley took your unit," she went on. "For God's sake, let's get out of here and get something to eat. I'm starving."

He got in. He wasn't sure he could eat anything. He looked out the window while she drove, the green fields, purpled with loosestrife and thistles, the indigo mountains standing against the long western rays of the sun. It didn't seem right, that everything went on, beautiful and oblivious, while people who had been alive this morning lay on cold slabs this evening.

"What was the last word from the dep?" Hadley's voice was quiet.

"He's on a ventilator. He hasn't regained consciousness."

Hadley worried her lower lip. On another occasion, he would've thought it was hot. "Sometimes, that's good," she said. "You know. Like a healing sleep."

"Yeah."

They both watched the countryside unfold as they rolled up and down the Cossayuharie hills. Suddenly, she said, "You got anything to eat at your place, Flynn?"

"Uh… yeah. Frozen meals. Leftover pizza."

"Good. Give me directions." She looked over at him. His confusion must have been plain. "I just… I can't face my kids and my granddad yet. And I sure as hell don't want to hang out someplace where anybody can gawk at my uniform." She was right. The word had probably already gotten out. Whoever didn't know about the shooting already would get the news tomorrow, when the Post-Star hit the doorstep. "So let's go eat at your place." She glanced at him again. "You don't live with your parents, do you?"

He wheezed a laugh. "No."

He told her how to reach his duplex in Fort Henry. He had the top half of a Depression-era workingman's house, plain as crockery, but the street was quiet and shady and he had garage space for his Aztek.

"Nice." Hadley parked in front of his space and dropped her rig in her cruiser's lockbox. Upstairs, he showed her the kitchen and excused himself to secure his own gun. "Get changed," she said. "Believe me, if I could get out of this damn outfit, I would."

He locked up his.44 and traded his uniform for baggy shorts and a T-shirt. It felt weird, stripping with her right down the hall in the kitchen. By the time he got back, she'd turned on the oven, found his stash of Miller's amber ale, and unwrapped four packages of frozen stuffed potatoes. "You know," she said, "these aren't that hard to make from scratch. Takes six minutes to nuke a potato."

He held out a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. "You want to borrow these? I mean, they'll be big, but the shorts have a drawstring." She stared at the clothes. He felt his face heat up. It had seemed like a good idea in the bedroom.

"Yeah," she said, finally. "I do."

He showed her the bathroom. Got the potatoes in the oven. Tried very hard not to imagine her undressing. Opened a beer. At least he wasn't feeling so stone-cold miserable anymore. It was hard to be depressed and awkward at the same time.

He heard the toilet flush. She was laughing. Oh, shit. The bathroom door opened. "Flynn," she said, "you've got the rules of admissible evidence taped to the inside lid of your toilet seat." She laughed some more. "That's about the geekiest thing I've ever seen."

"It was from a long time ago," he protested. "I was studying. I forgot to take it down."

She picked up her beer. His T-shirt hung off her like a beach cover-up. "I bet you put a new topic there every week." She grinned at him. "Maybe I ought to try that with Hudson. He's been having trouble with his fractions." She wandered out the other end of the kitchen, where a table and four chairs divided his small living room from the enclosed porch. "Wow. You have a ton of books. Maybe I should just send Hudson over here. Let you tutor him."

"Sure," he said. "I like kids." He rolled open the glass door to the porch.

She rested her bottle on one of his bookcases. "That's because you are one."

He picked up her beer. "Come out to the porch. It's cooler."

She sat on the rattan couch that used to be his parents' and he stretched out in an Adirondack chair that had been his oldest brother's shop project. They propped their feet up on the rattan coffee table. The early evening breeze sighed through the screens. They sat in silence, drinking their beers. Hadley studied the beads of condensation rolling down the amber glass.

"I'm going to quit the force," she said.

He stared at her. "What?"

"It hit me, today." She looked at him. "What the chief told me. This isn't like working at an insurance office or a restaurant. This is like signing up for the army. People get killed."

No officer on the MKPD has died on the job since 1979."

"Thank you, Kevin," she singsonged. Her voice hardened. "That statistic's about to change."

He pushed himself out of his chair. He couldn't sit still and talk about this at the same time. "The chief will be fine."

"We don't know that! Even if he lives, he could be disabled, or have brain damage from his heart stopping so many times, or-"

"Don't. Please, don't." He crossed to one screened-in window, then another.

"I'm sorry." She got up herself, now, and blocked his pacing. "I'm sorry." She looked up at him. "It's different for you. To you, it's still like a kid's game of shoot-'em-up."

"No," he said. "It's not."

She dropped her eyes. "No," she said. "It's not. I'm sorry."

He took a step closer to her. "And for once and for all, I'm not a kid."

"No." She looked up at him again. "You're not."

Then-he had no idea how-she was in his arms and he was hoisting her up, crushing her against him, and they were devouring each other, kissing, biting, sucking all the oxygen out of the room.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," Hadley gasped. "I don't want to be alone."

"No. No."

She hugged her arms and legs around him so tightly she nearly cut off his circulation. "Take me into your bedroom. Now."

"Yes. Oh. Yeah." He staggered down the hallway, and then they were in his room, then they were throwing off their clothes, then they were in his bed, and-oh my God-she was hotter, softer, wetter, sweeter than anything he could have imagined. He almost lost it, trying to touch her everywhere at the same time, but she slowed him down, said, "Here" and "Like this," and, "Oh, yes, that's just right." Let her show you what she likes, he had read, so he did. He was good at following directions, damn good, maybe, because she shook and then she clutched at him and then she arched off his bed, her voice strangling in her throat, and he felt amazed and powerful and tender all at the same time. Then she drew him over her and wrapped her legs around him and he pushed and everything in the moment must have been written all over his face because she laughed low in his ear and whispered, "In like Flynn."

XVII

There was no place to kneel and pray in the Critical Care Unit. A funny oversight, Clare thought. They had every other type of lifesaving equipment stuffed into the windowless space. They only had one chair, which she and Margy and Janet had rotated between them until Janet had to go home to her kids and her cows and Margy fell asleep on a wide sofa in the CCU waiting room. Clare dragged the chair's footstool to the foot of Russ's high-tech bed and knelt there. A little idolatrous, perhaps, as if she were praying to the long, broken body lying still and pale beneath the blanket.

She knew she ought to pray for God's will, not her own. She knew that bad things were not tests or punishments. She knew God was not a celestial gumball machine, and there was no combination of words or rituals that could force God's awful hand.

But desperation stripped away her knowledge, leaving her praying like a small child. Please, God, please, please, don't let him die. I'll do anything. Please don't let him die.

She had stopped in at the church and gotten her traveling kit after returning Sister Lucia to the Rehabilitation Center. The old woman had framed Clare's face between her hands and said, "I will pray without ceasing. For him and for you."

Now, at three in the morning, she anointed Russ with oil. "I lay my hands upon you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," she said, "beseeching our Lord Jesus Christ to sustain you-" It was meant to be an outward and visible sign, but in her slippery fingers it was a talisman, a seal, a dare to God to take him now she had protected him. She would have drenched the room in holy water, hung crosses on his ventilator and saint's medals over his heart monitor if she had thought she could get away with it. Magic. Faith. Her will. God's will.

Please, God, please, please, please. Let him live…

She woke with a start when the day nurse entered. She was sagging off the end of the bed, her arms completely numb, her thighs cramping. She fell off the footstool when she tried to get up.

"Good heavens, Reverend. Fell asleep, did we?" The nurse hauled her to her feet and sent her lurching toward the waiting room. "We need to clear the room for a few," the nurse said. "Why don't we get something to eat and some fresh air in the meantime?"

"Why don't we?" Clare mumbled. She collapsed on a sofa opposite the sleeping Margy and tried to ignore the shooting pain of the circulation coming back into her limbs. She was lined up with the opening to the corridor, and so had a perfect view of Lyle MacAuley getting off the elevator. He had changed into a fresh uniform-she hoped he had burned the other one-but he was red-eyed and haggard from lack of sleep.

"You look terrible," Clare said.

"Not compared to you, I don't." He halted in front of her, like an out-of-gas car rolling to a stop where the road comes level.

"Sit down." She slapped the cushion next to her once, the best she could manage. "The CCU nurse is in there. No visitors right now."

MacAuley collapsed with a groan. He sat, simply sat, for a moment. "Any change?" he finally asked.

"No."

"Hell damn."

"Yeah."

They were silent for a while. She wondered if he was afraid to talk about it, like she was. Afraid that one wrong word, two, and she'd find herself saying I don't think he's going to make it.

"What's going on with the case?"

The lines in his face fell into something resembling a smile. "Well, that answers that."

"What?"

"I always did wonder if you were playing with police work because of Russ, or because you're terminally nosy."

"Both," she said. "Plus, it's a lot more interesting than the Mary and Martha's Guild meetings."

"Too damn interesting, these days."

She nodded. It seemed as if she could hear the slow whoosh… whoosh of the ventilator, breathing for Russ.

"We're pretty sure the Punta Diablos-that's a gang running pot out of New York-are the ones who did Amado. Looks like they left him up on the Muster Field so's we'd run into him sooner and head straight over to the Christies'." His face worked, as if he was chewing on something bitter. "They used us to clear out the dogs and the Christie men, and then went to the farm to get their property."

"The distribution list?"

"Told you about that theory, did he?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we still don't know for sure if that's what they were after. Neither of them can tell us." There was a grim satisfaction in his voice. "Have to sweat it out of the Christies."

"But why Amado? He had no connection to the Christies."

"They came after him, didn't they? And two of 'em got booked for it. Woulda been all over the county jail. You never heard gossip till you heard jailbirds."

"But why would they think a man the Christies hated would know anything?"

"Dunno."

"How did the Christies get hold of the list?"

"Dunno. Yet."

"What's the connection to the bodies behind the Muster Field?"

"Dunno."

"There's a lot you don't know, Deputy Chief."

He sank back farther into the couch. "You got that right, Reverend."

They sat silent again. Across the way, Margy Van Alstyne snored gently. She'd been up until two o'clock or so. Clare hoped she'd sleep on. Asleep, she wasn't eaten up with fear for her only son.

"You might want to go visit Isabel Christie while you're here."

"The sister?" she said.

"Ayeah. When Russ told her about Amado yesterday morning, she was pretty broke up about it."

"Oh, God." Clare exhaled. "So there was something there." She looked down at her clerical blouse. There was dried blood crusted on it. "I don't know if I'm in a fit state to help her."

He rolled his head to one side and looked at her. "Can't think of anyone better."

She gave him a wavering smile. Thought about losing someone you loved. Someone you weren't supposed to love.

"Lyle?"

He grunted.

She took a breath. "Was it true? About you and Linda Van Alstyne?"

He paused for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally he said, "Yeah."

"Have you talked to Russ about it?"

"Apologized. He wouldn't take it. We've been limpin' along since last January." He swallowed. "After he was shot, he-" He held up one hand and closed it around empty air. "He apologized to me. Called me-" His voice cracked. He snapped his mouth shut, muscles jumping in his jaw. "Friend." His voice was so husky she could barely hear him.

She took his hand and held it tightly, tears filling her eyes. "I know he forgives you. He loves you."

Lyle made a noise. "Jesum." He cleared his throat. "Don't be saying that in public. I'll never live it down." He looked at their hands. "He was thinking of you," he said. "The last thing. He said your name."

She closed her eyes. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. "We were fighting," she whispered. "Before he got the call about Amado's body. I told him I hated him. Oh, Lyle-"

He reached around and pulled her against his shoulder. "Shh," he said. "Shh. Just what you said to me. He forgave you. He loves you."

"I told him we had to wait," she said between sobs. "I told him it was for him, but it was really for me. I was a coward. I was too afraid of getting hurt again to take the chance, and now-oh, God, that was the only time we had together, and I wasted it! Why? Why did I do that?"

"Shh." Lyle rubbed her back in comforting circles, just like her father would have. "Shh. I don't know why, Reverend. We don't have near enough time on this earth, and what we do have, we fritter away acting like damn fools."

XVIII

She took Lyle's advice and went to see Isabel Christie that afternoon. She found her propped up in bed, her face half hidden by a bandage, the parts that weren't covered up puffy and purpling. Clare introduced herself.

"I never saw a lady priest," Isabel said. Her voice was stuffy, as if she had a head cold.

"I'm not much of a lady," Clare said. And sometimes not much of a priest, either.

Isabel eyed her warily, as if Clare might spring onto the bed and forcibly convert her. "Pastor Bob at the Free Will Fellowship used to say that priests were an abomination in the sight of the Lord." Even in her clogged voice, there was a note suggesting Pastor Bob hadn't been her favorite person.

"I bet ol' Pastor Bob said women should submit to men, right?"

"Yeah."

"And that parents that loved their children should chastise them?"

"Uh-huh."

"And that everybody who didn't worship at the Free Will Fellowship was going to roast marshmallows in hell?"

"Especially Catholics." Above her bandage-swathed nose, Isabel's forehead creased with worry. Amado had been a Catholic.

"Well, if Pastor Bob was right, then I probably am an abomination and all that. I say that male and female are equal in the sight of God, that Jesus would never have smacked a little kid, and that God's grace means we're going to be very surprised by who-all gets into heaven."

Isabel stared at the opposite wall, where a muted television showed the channel 9 news. "I never liked Pastor Bob. After I started developin', he used to hug me." She looked at Clare. "You know?"

"I know."

"There's my house," Isabel said.

Clare looked at the television. It was a distant shot of the Christies' farm from yesterday afternoon, with cops and SWAT team members still walking around. It was replaced by a photo of a smiling middle-aged woman standing on a mountaintop somewhere in the High Peaks. "That's the lady from Children and Families," Isabel said. "She tried to get away." She picked up the remote and switched the volume on as the screen switched back to the farm.

"Millers Kill Chief of Police Russell Van Alstyne is still in critical condition at Washington County Hospital following the high-stakes hostage-taking-"

"My niece Porsche said he saved her life. And her baby's. Scared the heck out of her, though."

"I know." Clare looked away from the TV, where Lyle MacAuley was asking viewers to be on the alert for other members of the Punta Diablo gang. "He's a friend of mine. The police chief."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"They don't know yet. It's been twenty-four hours since he got out of surgery, and he's still on a ventilator." Doctors clumped around his bedside. Frowns and pursed lips. The discussion falling off when they spotted Margy's pale face.

"I'm sorry," Isabel said. "It's my brothers' fault."

"No." She gestured toward the TV. "You saw the report. They were gang-bangers from New York City." Clare paused. Hoped she wasn't about to reopen a wound. "I don't know if this helps, but Deputy Chief MacAuley told me they were also responsible for Amado Esfuentes's death. They were after something, just like at your house, and they thought Amado knew where it was."

Isabel's already inexpressive face became a mask. Her eyes were dry and hollowed out. "One of the cops said he'd been…"

"Yes." Isabel deserved the truth. "We who survive like to comfort ourselves by saying 'It was quick' or 'At least he didn't suffer.' It's a hard thing, when we can't believe that."

"Yeah."

"But we do know that whatever happened, whatever he went through, it's over now. And nothing can ever hurt him again." She smiled a little. "I bet Pastor Bob used to preach Revelations."

"Oh, yeah. A lot."

"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water; and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

Isabel was very still for a moment. "Even Amado's?"

Clare thought of the shy young man, vacuuming one-handedly, polishing the choir stalls, humming to himself when he thought no one could hear. "Especially Amado's," she said.

Isabel leaned back into her pillows. Framed in white, the violet and green on her face stood out in high relief, until she seemed to be made of bruises and tired, flat eyes. "It's our fault. Mine and my brothers'. No, I know"-she held up a hand to stop Clare's objection-"we weren't the ones actually tortured him to death. But we're to blame. All of us." She looked out the window. "Christies stick together," she said. "That's what we had drummed into our heads by our dad. Stick together. Watch out for one another. You wouldn't think something that sounds so good could twist around and hurt so many people."

"Isabel," Clare said, "what we talk about privately stays private. I can't-I won't-repeat anything you say to me. But if you know why those men came to your house and what they were after, please, please tell Deputy Chief MacAuley."

Isabel rolled her head toward the window. "I'm tired, now."

Clare stood up. The girl's flat affect worried her. A lot. She dredged one of her cards out of her pocket. "Isabel, I'm leaving you my numbers. If there's anything I can do for you, if you want to talk to me about anything, call me. At any time. Would you do that?"

Isabel made a sound that was something like a laugh. "You think I might kill myself?"

Clare thudded back into the chair. "Are you thinking about it?"

"Suicide's a sin. Don't you know that?" She closed her eyes. "Please go."

Clare got up.

"Wait," Isabel said. "Would you do me a favor?"

"Uh… if I can."

"My jeans are in the closet over there. Could you get them for me?"

Clare crossed to the closet. Wondered if a word to Isabel's nurses would be enough, or if she ought to go straight to the social services caseworker. She handed the jeans to Isabel, who removed a very expensive-looking little cell phone from the front pocket.

"I been carrying this around every day for months," she said. "But I never turned it on. I wonder if there's any battery left."

"Um," Clare said. "Maybe. You may not be able to get a signal in here, though."

"I don't want to use it to call. I just want the address book."

"The address book." The caseworker, she decided. Isabel's voice was too light, too disconnected.

"I have to make arrangements," Isabel said. "For when my brothers get out of jail."

XIX

Hadley left Flynn's duplex before dawn so she could slip into her own bed without the kids-or Granddad-noticing she hadn't been there all night. She kissed him and whispered, "Thank you." He reached for her sleepily, one long bare arm, but she laughed quietly and said, "No. One more time and neither of us will be able to walk."

She wasn't sure she could manage it, even without an extra toss. No wonder the matrons in LA went for younger trade. Eventually, you'd croak from sheer exhaustion, but oh, my God, what a way to go.

She drove the cruiser home, to discover MacAuley had left her a voice mail. She had a mandatory day off, courtesy of her ever-increasing overtime. She supposed it was the best excuse he could come up with. She wondered if Flynn got the same message.

She got an hour's sleep in before Geneva woke her up. She tried to interest the kids in the novelty of a stay-at-home day with Mommy, but Rec Camp was going to Aquaboggin-"With ice cream cones afterward, Mom!"-so she settled for a special breakfast of scrambled eggs before taking them to the middle school. On Barkley Avenue, a glint of red hair made her whip her head around, but it was just the director of the Free Clinic, unlocking the door.

She got back home, dodged Granddad's none-too-subtle remarks about late nights, tossed a load into the washer, and crawled back into bed as soon as he left for St. Alban's. She dreamed; intense, erotic dreams about Flynn's lean body and his hands all over her, and woke up reaching for him, sweaty and aroused. She curled around herself and thought, It's just sex. It's been a long time. Don't be stupid. He wasn't even her type. She liked her men edgy and artistic, with long hair and suffering eyes. Not overgrown Eagle Scouts.

She had half a million things to do, but she wound up spending most of the day swinging on the front porch, drinking lemonade and watching bumblebees flit from the peonies to the sunflowers and back again. She called in, once, to get word on the chief. "No change," Harlene said. "Still unconscious, still on a ventilator. But the doctor's real hopeful."

Hopeful of what? That he dies before he wakes up and realizes how bad it is?

She rocked and rocked on the narrow porch, one bare foot braced against the railing, a notebook propped against her thigh. Writing down pros and cons of staying on the force. PROS: Good pay, great benefits, only six weeks more of Basic. CONS: Could die or be disabled (insurance?), no natural ability, ugly uniform. That last was small change, but she thought she ought to put it down, to keep honest.

She wrote co-workers under CONS, then thought for a minute and included it under PROS as well. She wrote Flynn's name between the two lists. She added an arrow pointing to the CONS side, then another pointing to PROS. Then another, and another, until his name radiated dozens of sharp-tipped lines in every direction.

She wrote FEAR beneath Flynn's well-armed name. She wrote PUNTA DIABLOS under that. Then HUMVEE/HUMMER? Then 5. She slashed out the 5 and replaced it with 3.

She stared into the heat shimmers rising off Burgoyne Street. Across the way, one of her granddad's elderly neighbors waved. Hadley absently raised a hand.

The crunch of tires rolling into their drive snapped her out of her thoughts. It was an Aztek. Oh, no. She glanced into the window behind her before recalling she was alone for now. She held out the hope that he was just returning something she had left behind until he rounded his truck and she saw his face, shining like the sun.

He bounded up the steps, Romeo in baggy shorts and a MILLERS KILL MINUTEMEN T-shirt. He held a small wrapped package in one hand. Oh, hell, no. He tossed it onto the swing's cushion and squatted in front of her, crowding the space between the swing and the railing. He grinned, half-pirate, half-moonstruck. "Hi," he said.

Oh, shit. This was going to be like shooting a puppy.

"Hi," she said. "Uh, I see you got the day off, too."

"We're supposed to if we've been involved in a shooting. According to the regs, MacAuley should get a week off while the state investigates, but I guess nobody expected the chief and the deputy chief to both exchange fatal fire with suspects in the same incident." The whole time he was talking like one of her instructors, he was looking at her lips, her neck, her cleavage, as if he were picking which dish on the buffet line he would dig into first.

"Oh," she said.

"Are your kids here?"

"No. Nobody but me until Rec Camp gets out." Wrong answer. Heat flared behind his eyes. Against her will and good sense, her body responded. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea, some part of her that wasn't her brain suggested. Maybe just once-or twice-more?

"No. No, no, no." She pointed to the empty seat beside her. "Sit."

He scooped up the package and sat down. The swing creaked beneath his weight. "I got this for you," he said. He handed her the paisley-wrapped gift. She took it reluctantly. It was just the right size for a bracelet or a necklace. Heavier, though. He liked books. Oh, my God, maybe it was a collection of love poems.

"You shouldn't have," she said.

He smiled, pleased with her, with himself, with the whole world. "It's not anything."

"No, I mean it. You shouldn't have." She tucked one foot beneath her leg and turned toward him. "Flynn, I think you misunderstood what was going on last night."

"I was there. Believe me, I remember everything that happened." His cheeks reddened. "It was the most-" He shook his head. "You're the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me."

"Flynn. Thank you, that's really sweet. But it was just sex. It was"-achingly good-"lovely, but it was just sex."

He was shaking his head. "Don't underestimate yourself." He took her hand.

Oh, Christ. This wasn't going to be shooting a puppy. It was going to be slowly hacking it to bits with a rusty saw.

"This can't lead to anything," she said, grasping at the easy way out. "You know what the chief said. Absolutely no fraternizing."

"I've been thinking about that," he said. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, sending an electric jolt to the base of her spine. "I think if we go to him together and explain our relationship, he'll be okay. He's worried about somebody hassling you, not about two people-you know…" He blushed again.

She withdrew her hand. "Flynn. Kevin. Look. We don't have a relationship." She took a deep breath. "Yesterday, the whole thing at the Christie farm was like a horrible nightmare for me. I needed some human warmth and comfort, some… proof that I was alive and whole and that there was still something good in the world." She touched his arm. "And you gave that to me. Thank you. It was wonderful. But it's not a relationship, and it's not going to happen again."

He stared at her.

The ice-cream truck tinkled down the street, spilling calliope ragtime in its wake.

"I don't-" He stopped. Inhaled. "Okay. Wait. How do you feel about me? Now?"

"I-uh, like you. You're a nice guy. I thought you were a nice guy before."

He looked at her, baffled and desperate. "I'm a nice guy? But we made love! It was transcendent! It was passionate! It was-it was everything!"

She closed her mind to the images his words conjured up. She did not want a relationship with this young man. "It was sex, Flynn." She forced a smile. "You can't fall in love every time you have sex."

His face changed. Flattened, maybe. His eyes took on a trapped expression.

"Flynn?" A dreadful possibility wormed into her brain. "You weren't-you have had sex before. Right?"

He sat there, silent.

"Oh, shit." She slapped her hand over her forehead. "Don't tell me you were a virgin. Oh, my God."

"You don't have to say it like that."

"A twenty-four-year-old virgin. I didn't think it was possible." She looked at him. "Wait. If you were a virgin, how come you had condoms?"

His face was bright red. "I'm inexperienced, not hopeless."

"Oh, my God." She stood up. "Okay, that explains everything. You're not in love, Flynn, you're just pussy-struck. Get up." She tugged at his T-shirt and he stood. "Go home and take a cold shower. This weekend, go out to a club, pick up a girl your own age, take her home and everything you did to me? Do it to her. I promise you, she'll follow you anywhere and want to have your babies." Her voice sounded brittle and shrill in her own ears. She shut up.

His handsome, open face was stiff. "I'll go home," he said. "But I'm not picking up a girl my own age because I don't want a girl my own age. I want you. And I may not know much about sex, but I know how I feel, and I don't try to lie about it or cover it up or ignore it because it doesn't happen to coincide with some sort of preprogrammed image I've got in my head." He turned away. Thudded down the steps to the walkway. Turned around. Came back up four steps. "If you're still thinking about quitting the force, don't. You're a good cop, and we need you." He turned. Went down the steps again. Stopped. Turned around and came back up three steps. "I love you." He stomped down to the walkway and was pulling out of the drive before she could begin to think of what to say to that.

She climbed back onto the swing, crisscrossing her feet beneath her. She stared at her half-empty glass of lemonade. The notebook. The package. She picked it up and ripped the paisley paper off.

FRACTION FLASH FOR FOURTH GRADE, the box said. Help your child master fractions in a flash!

She tipped her head back. Struck the porch rail with her heel and set herself rocking. Oh, Flynn. She held the flash cards tight against her chest. What am I going to do about you?

XX

Just before leaving to pick up the kids, she looked at her lists again. Read over the notes. Thought about what Flynn had said, not today, but way back. About putting on the suit. Becoming The Man. She went into the kitchen and called the station again. She waited while Harlene bellowed for Lyle to pick up the extension. She wondered if he was sitting in the chief's office, at the chief's desk.

"There's no change," he said.

"It's not about the chief," she said. "It's about the Punta Diablo guys. The ones at the Christies."

"What about 'em?"

"They didn't have a vehicle there. Did we pull any prints from the CFS caseworker's car?"

"No-o-o."

"So they must have been dropped off. By their friends in the Hummer."

"Don't worry. There's a warrant out for that car, and a BOLO on all the guys we think are linked to Punta Diablo. The First District AGTF is looking for 'em down in the city."

"Did the Christie brothers give up the list?"

"They lawyered up. Wouldn't say anything except they didn't know nothin'." He paused. "Neil's still in county lockup, though. He'll be there until he gets his hearing on assaulting an officer. Maybe we can cultivate a snitch." MacAuley's voice had taken on the considering tone she'd heard him use when he and the chief bounced ideas back and forth.

"It was just a thought, and maybe I'm off base, but as long as that list is somewhere up here, won't the Punta Diablos be around looking for it?"

MacAuley's voice was grim. "That's what I'm afraid of."

XXI

The congregation was standing to hear Elizabeth de Groot read the Gospel when the teenager walked into St. Alban's.

"And he called to him the twelve, and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits."

The great double doors were open to a dazzling patch of sunshine, and just inside the sanctuary, a man-high industrial-strength fan oscillated north to south and back again. Clare, trying to focus on the reading, almost missed her in the movement and glare.

"He charged them to take nothing for their journey except a staff: no bread, no bag, no money in their belts."

The girl halted, glanced around, clearly unsure of what to do. Frank Williamson, one of today's two greeters, went over to her.

"But to wear sandals and not put on two tunics."

She said something to him. He nodded. Gestured toward one of the rear pews. The girl gazed about, wide-eyed, taking in the altar, the flowers, Clare, standing before the bishop's chair. She said something else to Frank, then turned and walked back into the square of light dividing St. Alban's from the outside world.

"And he said to them, 'Where you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place.' "

Frank Williamson walked up the north aisle in shining leather shoes that never made a sound. Clare watched him, dread squatting like a toad in the pit of her belly. It had been four and a half days since Russ came out of surgery, and he was still in a profoundly unconscious state no one wanted to call a coma.

" 'And if any place will not receive you, and they refuse to hear you, when you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet for a testimony against them.' "

Frank disappeared around the side of the organ. A moment later he reappeared, quiet, self-effacing, headed back to his post.

"So they went out, and preached that men should repent."

Betsy Young rose smoothly from her bench. She glided across the choir, crisp in red cassock and white surplice, bowing before the crucifix at the high altar. She stopped next to Clare.

"And they cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them."

"Russ Van Alstyne's niece brought you a message," the music director said in a low voice. "He's woken up and he's responding to stimulus."

"The Gospel of the Lord," Elizabeth concluded.

"Praise to you, Lord Christ." Clare's whisper was lost in the congregation's response.

XXII

The CCU waiting room was wall-to-wall by the time Clare got there. She was trailed by Mrs. Marshall and Norm Madsen and Dr. Anne, who squeezed in with Janet and Mike, their three daughters and Roxanne Lunt-"You know we're both on the board of the Historical Society, don't you? I don't know what we'd do without him." Margy Van Alstyne's cousin Nane, several elderly Miss and Mrs. Bains, his high-school friends Wayne and Mindy Stoner. Jim Cameron and his wife, Lena-although Janet whispered, "He's just here to see if they're going to have to pay out on Russ's short-term disability insurance." Noble Entwhistle and Paul Urquhart, and Harlene Lendrum, escorting a potato-faced man with the biggest, hairiest ears Clare had ever seen. "Have you met my husband, Harold?"

Eventually, Margy Van Alstyne came into the waiting room, looking as if she, and not her son, had returned from the dead. People straightened, stood, smiled as she glanced from face to face, looking for the next visitor to be allowed in the CCU. Her eyes came to rest on Clare. "There you are," she said. "Don't just stand there. He's been asking for you."

"Wantin' to confess his sins, no doubt," Harlene said.

Clare could feel her face heating up as she threaded her way through the crowd, but the smiles around her were generous, wholehearted. If she was destined to play out her life center stage in a small town, at least she had a forgiving audience.

The room seemed larger without the ventilator apparatus. Russ still had an IV running into one arm, but his nasogastric tube was gone. He was pale, with deep purple shadows beneath tired eyes. Bits of adhesive stuck to his five-day beard, and his hair badly needed washing.

She stood at his bedside, so full she couldn't speak.

"Hi," he said. His voice was weak, raspy.

"Hi," she said. She smiled. Brushed his forehead. Touched his cheek. "I thought you'd left me."

"No."

"You scared the crap out of me."

He smiled faintly. "Turnabout… "

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for those horrible things I said to you. I didn't mean it. Not any of it."

"Liar."

She laughed a laugh that was very close to a sob. "All right, I meant some of it. But not that I hated you. I love you. I've loved you from the very start. I will always love you."

"I know." He inhaled slowly, as if it hurt to breathe. "I knew."

"Let's not ever fight again."

He closed his eyes, still smiling. "Fat chance." He shifted, a small movement, and his lips went white.

"You're in pain. Let me get the nurse."

"Not yet." He opened his eyes again. Held up one hand, taped and tubed and bruised.

She took it, gingerly. "Holding on." He squeezed.

"Not letting go."

XXIII

Clare ran into Hadley Knox when she went for coffee. She had kept to her five-minute limit in Russ's room, turning her spot over to the Stoners, then huddled with Margy, who gave her the doctors' latest prognosis.

She didn't expect another chance to see him-that would be selfish, considering how many were waiting to go into the CCU-but she wanted to hang around, to talk with other people who cared for him, to see her relief and happiness reflected in other eyes.

But happy or not, she needed her caffeine fix. Apparently, Hadley did, too. She was standing in front of the lobby coffee-tea-hot chocolate dispenser as Clare walked by. "Don't do it," Clare said.

Hadley looked up. "What?"

"That stuff is to real coffee as Cheez Whiz is to good English cheddar. Come to the cafeteria with me, they have a couple of decent grinds down there."

Hadley fell into step with her. "Have you seen the chief yet?"

"Yep."

"How's he doing?"

"He looks like hell."

Hadley laughed. "Then why are you grinning like that?"

"Because it feels like Christmas and Easter rolled into one?" Clare pushed the cafeteria door open. "He is risen, he is risen," she sang. "Tell it out with joyful voice!" She dropped back into normal speech. "Actually, it'll be some time before he rises. The doctors say he's facing a long period of recovery and rehab. But," she stressed, "he shows no sign of brain damage. And the bullets missed his spine, so he should recover all normal physical functions."

"All normal physical functions."

"Yep."

Hadley's lips twitched. Clare led her to the coffee urns. She found herself humming, "The Day of Resurrection," as she loaded her Sumatran Dark with sugar.

"Can I ask you a question?" Hadley snapped a thermal top over her milkless, sugarless cup.

"You sure can."

"You're a-I'm not trying to get personal here, but there's a pretty big age difference between you and the chief, isn't there?"

"Thirteen or fourteen years. I guess some people would call that a pretty big difference." She blew across the top of her coffee. "My parents would." It hit her, then. Sooner or later, Mother and Daddy would have to meet Russ. Ugh.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What, that he remembers the Beatles and I don't? Not particularly."

Hadley frowned. Clare set her cup down next to the napkin dispenser. This wasn't just curiosity. For some reason, Clare's answer was important to Hadley. "Okay. Seriously." She thought for a moment. "I wish I could have known him when he was young. To see who he was then. And I wish I hadn't missed so many of the events that shaped his life. I turned five during his tour of duty in Vietnam. That's… a little daunting. But for the rest of it?" She smiled. "We have so many differences that have nothing to do with age that I don't spend much time thinking about it."

Hadley pulled a plastic stirrer from the rack and began to fold it into small pieces. "But what about the future? Don't you worry you'll be, you know, turned off when he gets old and saggy?"

Clare laughed. "Hadley, we all get old and saggy sooner or later." She sobered. "If we live that long." A possible reason for this odd line of questioning popped into her head. "Have you-are you and Lyle-"

"No! Oh, my God, he's older than my father. Oh, yech. Besides which he's, like, my boss. Double yech." She patted her pockets. "Let's pay for these and get back. I'm sorry. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me."

"Sounds like a good trait for a police officer." Clare handed the cashier a five. "This one's on me."

"Thanks."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Not if it's about Lyle MacAuley." Hadley shuddered.

Clare took her change and gestured toward the door. "The vestry's agreed to pay for the mortuary expenses and the cost of returning Amado Esfuentes's body to Mexico." After considerable arm twisting. "Kilmer's Funeral Home can take care of everything, but I need to know his next of kin and how to contact them. Do you guys have that?"

"No. We didn't take it when we questioned him. There're a stack of official forms that need to be filled out, but we haven't tackled them yet."

"Would you come with me to the McGeochs, then? Tomorrow? I want to ask his friends if they want a memorial service here, but I don't speak Spanish." She held the door open and sprinkled a little sugar in her voice. "We could both get the information we need."

"I'm on patrol tomorrow."

"After work? Or lunchtime?"

Hadley sighed. "Okay. Lunch."

"Thanks." Clare winked. "I promise I won't tell Lyle about your mad crush."

"Oh, my God! Reverend Clare!"

XXIV

This time, Clare arranged the visit with the McGeochs first. "Oh, yes, please." Janet flapped the stack of forms she'd gotten from the financial office. "I know they've all been sick with worry and grief, but I've been so caught up with everything going on here"-she waved at the CCU waiting room-"I haven't had a chance to think about what the men might want to do. I'll talk with Octavio. He'll have them ready for you."

When she pulled into the deserted barnyard the next day, Clare realized she should have asked where he'd have them ready. The noonday heat buffeted her when she got out of the car, making her converted-to-clericals sundress-a loose linen shift falling from dog collar to ankles-feel like a burka. She retrieved a sack of deli sandwiches and a small cooler of drinks from her backseat. Shut the door. Turned at the sound of tires and saw Hadley's squad car swinging into the barnyard. Dust tumbled behind her wheels as she rolled to a stop next to Clare.

"I don't suppose the barn is air-conditioned," Hadley said, by way of a greeting.

" 'Fraid not."

"Here, let me take one of those." Hadley hoisted the cooler. "You brought lunch?"

"I didn't want anyone to miss out because of the meeting." Clare took a step away from Hadley. "iHola!" she shouted. "Octavio?"

There was a faint sound of voices in response. "That way." Hadley pointed. They headed for the far side of the barn. "God, it's hot. I don't remember it being this warm when I summered here as a kid."

"You weren't in a uniform and boots when you were a kid."

"Yeah"-she sounded disgruntled-"Well…"

They rounded the corner. The men sat at the far end of the barn, in the double shade of its three stories and its silo. Behind them, a two-rut lane ran past a cornfield and disappeared down a slope toward the old farmhouse. Clare could see its roof, floating above the sheaves.

"Hola." The workers were clustered in a ragged semicircle, bagged lunches spread out on the lush grass. Clare set her offering in the middle and plopped down, facing them. Decided the coolness of the spot made up for the smell of manure pervading the air. Hadley opened the cooler, took out a bottle of water, and lowered herself carefully, wrestling the bits and pieces of her gun belt out of her way.

"Go ahead," she said, twisting the top off the water. "You talk, I'll translate."

Clare took a deep breath. "Amado's death is a great loss," she began.

One of the men cut her off with a sharply worded question. Hadley answered him. He said something else, angry, accusing. Hadley replied at length, measuring out her words, her voice patient.

It was Octavio, Clare realized. The foreman. She had noticed his resemblance to Amado the first time she met him. Had thought then they might be related. "What's going on?" she asked Hadley.

"He wants to know what's happening with the investigation. How come we haven't caught Amado's killers yet."

"Ask him if he's one of Amado's family."

"¿Sois parientes?" Hadley said.

"¿Emparentado? ¿Emparentado?" He sprang to his feet. "Yo soy Amado Esfuentes. Mí."

What in the world?

Hadley's mouth opened. "He says-"

"I got that. Who was my Amado, then?"

Octavio-the real Amado-didn't need that translated. "Mi hermano. Mi hermano, Octavio."

"Brothers," Hadley said, before rattling off another question. Amado's face twisted as he answered her. He spread his hands. His tone, his pain, translated for him. I thought I was doing the right thing.

"He was the one with the employment papers," Hadley said. "He swapped them with his little brother the night of the accident, so Amado-Octavio-wouldn't be deported."

"Oh, dear Lord." She had been there, just where Amado was, eating the bitter fruit of good intentions. It was a meal that lodged in your throat and never went away. "Lo siento, Amado. I am so, so sorry."

Hadley asked him a question. Clare caught the words "Punta Diablos." Amado frowned. Said something. Clare caught the word "Christies." Hadley replied to him.

"What?" Clare asked.

"I'm trying to find out if he knew why the Punta Diablos were interested in his brother. He's confused. He was under the impression the Christies killed Amado-Octavio. Damn, I'm never going to keep the names straight."

"Nobody told them?"

"We had other things going on!"

"What about Isabel Christie?" Clare wondered. "Did she-"

Amado tensed. "Isobel?"

She had said to Russ, He can't say boo to a woman. She had said to Lyle, So there was something there. Clare met Amado's dark eyes. "You." She pointed to him. "It was you and Isabel."

His gaze shifted away. He glanced at the men sitting around them, their faces divided between worry and interest. Hadley stood. "Amado," she began. Clare got to her feet as well, wishing like hell her languages weren't limited to written Greek and Hebrew. With dictionaries by her side.

She was good at reading faces, though. As Hadley spoke, Amado's altered, from stony to pained, to horrified. He was hearing how his brother died. Clare laid her hand on Hadley's arm. "Go easy," she said.

"I want him to understand what's at stake. There are more of those guys out there. If he knows anything, we have to have it."

Amado straightened. He looked at the sky, the blue leached away in the heat of the sun. He looked at the other men. He looked at Hadley. "Come." He turned and strode toward the bunkhouse.

"What?" Clare said, hurrying to catch up.

"I don't know." Hadley hustled after her. The grass in the lane was brittle, the strawflowers and Queen Anne's lace already dry. The corn was stunted, with dull, cracked leaves.

"Tell him what I say, okay?" Clare lengthened her stride. "Amado. I met Isabel in the hospital. Did you know she had been wounded?"

Hadley spoke. Amado stumbled. Glanced over his shoulder at her. Resumed walking. "She is okay?"

"She was released on Friday." She paused, just long enough for Hadley to translate. "She thinks you're dead. It hit her hard. Very hard." She thought of the young woman's blank face while Hadley spoke and Amado replied in a low voice. The sense that Isabel had gone beyond caring.

"He says it's just as well." Hadley skip-hopped to keep up with them. They crested the rise. Below them, a thread of water trickled across the lane through a stony streambed. The bunkhouse baked in the sun beside it. "He says she's not for him and he's not for her. I dunno. Maybe she spun a romance out of a few meaningful glances?"

"I don't think so." Clare plunged forward and grabbed Amado's arm before he could enter the old farmhouse. Tugged him around to face her. She touched the silver cross hanging beneath her collar. Hoped the black and white would have an effect on him, even if she was an Anglican woman, and not a Roman man. "What if she's pregnant?"

Hadley copied her authoritarian tone.

Amado's mouth opened. "¿Embarazada?" He looked terrified and hopeful.

"Oh-ho," Hadley said. "You nailed that one on the head."

"Tell him I don't know. But he needs to come with me and let her see he's still alive. If he wants to break it off with her after that, fine."

He smoothed over his initial shock and listened to Hadley's translation with an impassive face. He looked at Clare. She stared back. "Okay," he finally said. "I go with you. For good-bye." He nodded stiffly and disappeared into the bunkhouse.

"Huh." Hadley propped her hand on her hip and fanned her face. "Me-thinks the lady doth protest too much. Or the man, in this case."

"I'm not trying to play Cupid. I was worried enough about Isabel's state of mind to put in a word with the hospital counseling folks. She blames herself for Amado's death-Octavio's death. You know what I mean. I think seeing him alive and well will let her forgive herself for accidentally setting her brothers on him. On his brother." She batted away a buzzing fly. "Whatever."

"Speaking of brothers, have you considered they might not be too thrilled if you bring yet another Latino guy to their farm?"

"I'll burn that bridge when I come to it."

"Don't you mean-" The sun-blistered door creaked open. Amado stepped out.

"Here." He thrust something at Hadley. "Esto es lo qué deséo el Punta Diablos." He sounded like a soldier at last laying down his arms.

Hadley stared at the black-and-white composition book in her hands. She flipped it open. Ran one finger down a handwritten page. "Holy shit." She looked up at Clare. "The chief was right. It's the distribution list."

XXV

Clare eased her car up the Christies' drive like a woman easing her way into the haunted house at the county fair. She knew there was nothing to be afraid of. But the sights, the smells, her sense of what-might-have-happened made her heart pound as she parked on the dusty grass and approached the porch steps.

Amado was an indistinct figure in her Subaru, waiting behind tinted windows. She had left the engine running, as much for a quick getaway as for the air-conditioning. She was lucky she had him with her-Hadley had been all for dragging him back to the station for formal questioning. Amado dug in his heels, saying only that he had found the notebook nearby and that he'd tell the police everything he knew after he had seen Isabel. Hadley had been torn between accompanying him and Clare and delivering the list to the station-so torn she had shifted back and forth, back and forth, on the balls of her feet, poised at her cruiser's door.

"I promise," Clare said. "I'll bring him in to you as soon as we're done at the Christie place." Which would also give her time to call Sister Lucia and set her to find a Spanish-speaking lawyer. Russ would have never gone for it, but Hadley, flushed with triumph, her fingers leaving damp prints all over the MKPD's biggest haul of the year, was an easier touch.

Now, approaching the weathered mahogany door she had last seen flung open for cops and EMTs, she wondered if it might not have been a better idea to wait, to have come up here after he was questioned, with Hadley and Kevin Flynn and maybe even Lyle MacAuley in tow. Too late now.

"Fly or die," she said to herself, pressing the bell.

The shirred curtains in the window shivered. The door opened a hand-breadth. A thin teenaged girl peered out. "Yeah?"

It wasn't what Clare had been bracing for. "Um. I would like to see Isabel."

"How come?"

"I'm Clare Fergusson. I"-the specter of Pastor Bob caused a midcourse correction-"am the chaplain who spoke with Isabel at the hospital. I wanted to see how she was doing."

"She's fine." The door swung.

Clare stuck her foot in the jamb. "I'd like to hear that from her."

"You can't." The girl pushed the door a few times, but Clare's lug-soled sandal didn't move.

"Are you Porsche?" The girl looked more like a Chevy Nova, but Clare hadn't named her.

"Yeah."

"Porsche, your aunt told me that Christies stick together. That you help each other. Is that true?"

"Yeah."

"Then please let me speak to her. I promise you, you'll be helping her."

The girl looked at Clare's foot. She released the door, letting it drift open. "She's not here. I'm"-she checked behind her, as if someone might overhear-"worried about her. Dad and Uncle Bruce and Uncle Neil took the van and drove off, and as soon as they were gone, Izzy was on the phone with somebody. Then the next thing I know, this chrome-flap Hummer pulls in the yard and Izzy's out the door."

"And that worried you because-?"

"There were Mexicans in it! I almost went and grabbed a gun, 'cause Dad said we ever see another Mexican on our land, we better shoot to kill!"

"But she went with them? Voluntarily?" Could they be some of Janet's men? No. That made no sense. There was only one group of Latinos interested in the Christies. "When was this?"

"Just a bit before you showed up. That's why I was being so careful and all."

"Do you know which way they went?"

Porsche stepped onto the porch. She leaned over the railing and pointed to where the open pasture rose into a stretch of woods. It was just visible in the gap between house and barn. "Up that way. There's a sort of a road up into the mountain, leads to the high meadows. Same way Dad and the others went."

"They're all up there? Together?" Jesus wept! This mental midget is who Russ almost died for? Clare passed her hand over her face. That was unworthy. "Porsche." She tried to project patience. "Do you have a phone I could use?"

XXVI

"Chief? You awake?"

"Mmm? C'mon in, Kevin." He opened his eyes. He'd been drifting, not dozing, wrapped in a warm Percocet-flavored cloud. He wanted to dial down the dosage this morning, to take back some small measure of control over his life, but by the time the nurse got around to him, he needed those two little pills rattling around in the plastic cup more than he wanted any sort of self-sufficiency.

Kevin's face came into view. "Hey." The kid smiled down at him like a proud dad looking over a newborn. Which, until he got the okay to get up to pee, wasn't too far off the mark. "Wow. It's sure great to see you."

None of the hospital staff had told him, yet, how close he had come to checking out. The heart surgeon and the orthopedic surgeon and the internist had gone over the technical aspects; right lung, pericardium, hip joint; the bottom line was he was going to be lying here, hurting, for a long time. After that, he'd be in rehab, hurting, for another long time. But no one said, You nearly died. He was learning that from his visitors' faces.

"Not as great as it is to see you," he said, getting a laugh. "What's happening at the station?" Kevin obliged his weak lungs by taking over the conversation at that point, rattling on in his usual Energizer Bunny way, allowing Russ to float in and out of awareness, until he connected the words twenty-two and ballistics test and confirmation. "What?" he said. "Go back."

"The ballistics test matched up one of the Christies' twenty-twos with the bullet that killed John Doe number one."

"We didn't have a warrant for their twenty-twos."

"Since there were multiple shootings from several firearms in the incident where you… you…"

"Got shot."

"… the state required ballistics tests on all possible weapons. MacAuley figured that ought to include all the available guns in the Christie house."

"Did he, now?" It hurt to smile, but in a good way.

"Well, as he said, how did we know the Punta Diablo guys didn't use one of the Christie guns and then replace it? Of course, there's no way of telling who might've used it, but it gives us something to hang our hats on." That last phrase was pure Lyle.

There was a knock at the door. Kevin turned, and from his prone position in the bed, Russ could see the slice of his face where his smile cut out.

"Oh," the kid said. "Hi."

"Am I interrupting?" Russ could hear Hadley but not see her.

"No, I was just-"

"Because I can-"

Russ hoisted one hand to a ninety-degree angle with the bed. His exercise for the day. "I think I can stand the excitement of both of you."

"I don't know if you can stand this excitement." Hadley replaced Kevin at the bedside rail. "Look at this." She dangled an 11-by-14-inch evidence bag over his bed. It contained a kid's composition book. "I know I should've taken it straight in, but I wanted you to see it before it goes to CADEA."

Kevin got it first. "Is this it?" He leaned over her shoulder. "The dealer list?"

Hadley looked at him, lit up like the Fourth of July. "It is."

"Oh, man. CADEA will be shining their noses on our backsides for this." Kevin grinned at her. They bumped fists together, something Russ would look like an ass doing; then there was a confusion of looking down and stumbling around, and next thing Russ knew the notebook had dropped onto his bed and his two youngest officers were a good five feet apart, so he had to crane his neck to see both of them. Hadley launched into an account of how the thing came into her hands, word-spinning as much as Kevin was prone to do. The part about Amado-Octavio-Amado clicked for him-that was why the boy had been so nervous during questioning-and he brushed past her apologies for handling the notebook without gloves on-"I didn't have them in my pocket, Chief, because I was just there to translate." He threw the brakes on when she said she let Amado-the real Amado-go. After he'd just proven he'd been in possession of the Punta Diablo's distribution list.

"I thought it would be okay, Chief. Reverend Clare promised to bring him to the station after they'd spoken to Isabel Christie."

Clare. Godamighty. He was going to have to get out of this hospital a lot faster than predicted, or she'd be running the damn force.

Kevin's phone rang. "Sorry." He checked the number. Flipped it open. "Kevin here." Harlene, he mouthed. "No, I'm visiting the chief." Hadley shut up. "What?" Kevin said. He glanced at her. "Yeah. I will. Hadley's right here with me, I'll tell her."

He closed the phone. Looked at Hadley. "Reverend Clare called from the Christies'. A group of Latinos in a Hummer just picked up the sister and went up the mountain after the brothers. We gotta hurry. She said"-he looked at Russ for the first time, as if he just remembered he was lying there-"she's going up after them."

XXVII

Branches twisted and whipped at the windshield. Clare gripped the steering wheel and eased off the acceleration as her Subaru humped over another kidney-jarring tree root. How far did this goat path go? How far did they dare drive? The last thing she wanted to do was burst onto the scene like a clown car driving into a circus ring. "Amado…?"

He leaned forward in the passenger seat as if the extra inches would help him see their destination. "Isobel," he said, in an unarguable voice. "We go help."

From the moment she had conveyed, in Spanglish and sign, who Isabel Christie was with, Amado had been dead set on following her. She couldn't let him go alone, she argued to a mental tribunal consisting of her bishop and Russ. It wouldn't have been-

Consistent was the bishop's word.

Stupid enough, Russ said.

"Stop." Amado raised his hand. She braked, pitching them forward. "I think… close." She inched the car as far off the trail as she dared and killed the engine.

Amado opened his door. "You stay!" Shades of Russ. God, she wished he were here.

"Sorry, no." She stepped out, latching her door with a click. The decaying leaves beneath her sandals had been compacted into two tire tracks leading upward, disappearing from view as the old road twisted behind a clump of beech trees. Amado frowned but waited for her to catch up. He gestured, hand flowing over the ground, finger to his lips. Slowly. Silently. She nodded.

She toiled upward, through shafts of sunlight and patches of shade, listening for a sound other than the song of warblers and the cry of jays. A decayed stone wall, tumbled by frost heaves and oak roots, showed the overgrown track had once been a real road. She spotted small, burly apple trees among the maples and red spruce; an orchard overgrown centuries ago, or the accidental fruit of farm boys playing Apple Core.

Apple Core!

Baltimore!

Who's your friend?

She heard a sound. She and Amado both stopped. It came again, muffled by leaves and misdirected as it bounced from hardwood to hardwood. Voices. Men.

And then a shot.

She hiked her skirt and ran. For a dozen strides, maybe two, Amado outpaced her, but the Guard didn't give pilots a pass on PT, and her conditioning kept her moving, churning up the leaf-spumed road, reaching Amado, drawing past him, leaving him behind.

The voices were louder, even over her sawing breath and pounding heart. No more shots, thank God. The road curved past a chunk of bedrock granite and she made the amateur mistake of rounding it at top speed, only to see the trees peter out, a sunlit meadow, a barn, a white van, a Humvee.

She threw herself behind the nearest maple with enough force to jar the air out of her lungs. Try not to be dumb, Fergusson, Hardball Wright said. You might live longer.

She dropped to the ground and crawled forward. Between the trees and the open field, a massive rhododendron flourished. She took refuge behind its glossy, impenetrable leaves.

There were three of them, dressed in urban gear so foreign to these woods they might as well have been from another planet. One, half visible around the uphill corner of a pole barn, held a gun pointed toward an unseen opening. Another guarded the downhill side, his weapon steady on a wide second-story door. The third stood at the narrow end of the barn. With Isabel Christie. She was seated on one of many bales scattered near the barn's foundations like cornerstones. Evidently the brothers had been pitching hay when the Punta Diablos arrived.

A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye caught Clare's attention. Amado, leaning against a tree, taking in the scene in the meadow. If he moved a few inches in either direction, he'd be spotted. She gestured for him to join her. He shook his head.

"So where is it?" the third man asked. Clare could just hear him above the insects droning over the field grass. Isabel's answer was indistinct. She got up, walked to the barn wall, and pulled a graying clapboard away from the foundation. The man who had been speaking to her craned forward, his gun drifting down toward his foot, the bad habit of someone who carried a weapon but was never trained to use it.

Isabel's shoulders moved, then moved again. She flattened herself against the narrow opening, as if she could stick her face instead of her hands inside.

"Where is it?" the man demanded.

Isabel whirled around. Said something. Spread her hands wide in bewilderment. Clare heard a moan beside her. She looked away from the drama for a moment. Amado's mouth was a perfect O of despair. And Clare knew, at that moment, what had been hidden that Isabel couldn't find.

He closed his mouth. His face set in lines of terrible determination. Ready to-what? Confess? Lie? What would they do to him to get the truth?

Clare, he was tortured.

Amado stepped out from behind the tree.

"No!" she whispered. She lunged forward, awkward on her hands and knees, and tackled him around the ankles. It was sloppy, but it worked. He went down with a crash into the rhododendron bush, setting a pair of crows cawing into the sky. From near the barn, someone shouted, "¿Qué es eso?"

She heard dull thuds, the swish of legs scissoring through tall grass. They had sixty seconds-maybe less. Clare knotted her hands in Amado's shirt and dragged him to her. She pointed to herself. "I say I have the book. El libro." She pointed at him. "You stay with Isabel." She rolled to her knees. "Wait. Be smart. Um, inteligente." She clambered to her feet and smashed through the bush before her nerve could desert her. The third man was halfway across the field, dragging Isabel behind him, waving his weapon like a machete, a.357 Taurus, just like the one she'd seen in the church kitchen, but holy God, this one looked twice as big, pointed at her.

"Don't shoot!" Clare threw her hands up.

The guy jerked to a stop. "Who the hell are you?" He stared as if her clerical collar and cross were as bizarre as the three studs sprouting from his upper lip. Maybe they were.

She had four heartbeats to figure how to play it. Looked like Isabel had the lock on terrified, and she didn't think the gangbanger would respond to ecclesiastical authority as well as Amado had. That left crazy.

"Hey!" She converted her upraised hands into a cheerful wave. "I'm Reverend Clare! I came to see Isabel!" She smiled wide enough to display her eye-teeth.

The guy's mouth formed the words What the… then he jerked the.357 up. "Get over here." He had a trace of an accent.

"Isabel, how are you?" Clare sauntered through the timothy and clover, smiling as if Isabel wasn't wide-eyed and trembling, as if there wasn't an enormous gun swinging like a compass needle between them. "Is there anything I can help with?" She hugged the startled girl. The guy opened his mouth again, but before he could order them back to the barn, she said, "Are you looking for the list of distributors? The one that belongs to these gentlemen?"

Isabel gaped at her. Then clicked her mouth shut. She nodded.

"Bitch, you said you had it!" The gangbanger lifted a fist.

Clare flipped one hand up. "I have it." She smiled at him. "Isabel didn't know." She looked into Isabel's eyes, letting her mask fall away. "Amado took it. For safekeeping. He's alive, Isabel. He wants you to be safe."

Isabel's mouth opened. Her eyes filled with tears and a desperate, dawning hope.

The Taurus stopped its movement, finding true north against Clare's rib cage. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"It's a hard-covered composition book, black and white. The entries are written in blue ink."

"Shit," he hissed. Clare kept a smile pasted on her face. Finally, he narrowed his eyes at her. "Where is it?"

Isabel clutched at her arm. Clare squeezed her hand, still smiling at the man. "I'll take you."

He poked the gun into her flesh. "You tell me. I'll go get it."

She shrugged. "It's locked in my office at St. Alban's. I'm afraid one of the seven or eight people working there today would phone the police as soon as they see you going in there." She brightened. "Maybe you can have a car chase through town! Now that would be something for the tourists to talk about." She turned to Isabel. "Do you think that would make people more interested in checking out our church? Or less?"

The faint hope that had lit in Isabel's eyes went out, quenched by Clare's obvious insanity.

"Shut up," the man said. He ran his tongue beneath his lip, frowning in thought. The studs rose and fell like buoys. He gestured with the.357. "Back to the barn." Clare linked arms with Isabel and strolled toward the angular structure. She could feel the gun behind her as if it were still pressed into her skin. If she could just put a little more space between them and the gunman, she could let Isabel know that the police were on their way. That all they had to do was survive for the next half hour.

The man said something in Spanish to his two buddies. One of them asked a question. Their captor answered. The he grabbed Isabel's thin arm, jerking her away from Clare. The girl stumbled and went down. Clare tensed. The Taurus swung back to her.

"You and me will go get this book. She stays here. If I don't come back in an hour, they'll kill her and her brothers. Got that?"

Clare nodded.

"Let's go."

She twisted her head around as she walked back to the entrance to the road. "Be brave, Isabel," she shouted. "Remember Revelation! God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

Mr. Personality shoved her. She stumbled, trotted forward, righted herself. "Are you a druglord?" She tried to sound like a teenybopper meeting a member of the latest boy band.

"What the hell is wrong with you, lady?"

They passed out of the sunlight into the shade of the forest.

"Do I get to keep the ten thousand dollars? You know, as a reward?"

"What? What ten thousand dollars?"

"The money that was with the notebook and the Ta-the gun. It was a big gun, like yours. I wouldn't know what to do with the gun, but I could sure use the money." She kept her voice loud and singsongy, copying a very sweet, very bipolar woman she had met during her clinicals in Washington.

"You got all that? Rosario's stuff?"

"Yep." She needed some way to remove him from the scene. A rock? A tree branch? She stepped over a fragrant pile. Sheep dung? The road was too wide and too clear for her to vanish into the underbrush, too twisting and uneven for her to lead him on a chase. Pick your ground real carefully, Hardball Wright said. It might be the only advantage you've got.

The car, then.

They rounded a bend and there it was, nose first in a stand of ferns, its rear quarter hanging into the lane, like a cow content to block the road while she grazed. The man circled around the back of the Subaru, pointing the gun toward her as he approached the passenger door. "Get in," he said.

She braced her hands on her hips. "What about my reward money?"

He laughed, a sound like a heat gun stripping paint. "I dunno. That was the rednecks' payment for taking out the garbage. You think you could be a garbageman for us? Take out our trash?"

Oh, God. The bodies in the shallow graves. She ducked her head, fiddled with the handle on the door. She couldn't think about that, couldn't think about Octavio, because if she did, she was going to lose it, and then she'd be just another terrified victim at the wrong end of his gun. She opened the door. Slid into the driver's seat. Keeping her face averted, she busied herself with the seat belt.

He knew fear. He expected it. Her only chance of doing this was keeping him off balance-by giving him something he didn't expect. She clicked the belt into place. He bounced into the seat next to her, sidesaddle, the better to keep the.357 aimed at her midsection.

She thumbed the audio controls from her steering wheel at the same time she fired up the car. Loud music bounced through the interior, cheerful and springy. She threw the transmission into reverse.

"Turn that off!"

"I can't!" she yelled.

He stabbed at the controls. The stereo fell silent. She shifted into PARK and turned the car off. "You crazy bitch." He jabbed the gun into her ribs again. "Go."

"I can't drive without music. Sorry. It's this thing I have."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, it all started when I went to summer camp in third grade. The bathrooms had these really thin plywood barriers, you know the kind, and you could hear everything that went on there, everybody doing her business, and I found out the first time I tried to go that I just couldn't, not when anyone could hear me, and-"

"Shut up! Shut up!" He punched the power button. "Just drive," he said, almost drowned out by Dar Williams singing.

She started the Subaru up again. Reversed, went forward, reversed, went forward, scribing that perfect sixteen-point turn. Maybe I can just do this until the MKPD gets here. But even a narrow road will be navigated. She found herself nose down, rolling through the woods, past the stone walls, past the echoes of the old farm, thinking, When? Where's my ground? How do I fight?

He wasn't wearing a seat belt. A stomp on the gas, steer into one of the great old oaks or maples-but could she get enough acceleration before he stopped her? Bashing into a tree at fifteen miles an hour wasn't going to cut it. Beyond the forest, the pasture, descending in a wide bowl to the farm. Then the drive, then the road, then-what? He wouldn't blink if she whizzed down Seven Mile Road at fifty miles an hour, but her goal was to disable him, not kill them both.

Branches tapped the windshield. Dar sang, I stole a Chevy and I wrapped it round a tree. She couldn't let him get as far as the town. Collateral damage wasn't in this guy's vocabulary. The thought of what he could do with innocent bystanders around made her stomach churn.

She bumped, slowed down, bumped again. Ahead, the forest opened onto the field. Sheep grazed over the grass. She felt like one of them: woolly-headed. She knew there was an answer. There was always an answer.

The Subaru picked up speed as the roadbed evened up. She was driving, out of time, out of her chance.

The answer fell into her lap. Fly or die. They burst out of the woods into a wash of sunlight. The pasture spread out below her. She rammed her foot to the floor, jerking the wheel hard to the left, felt the sick skid, the strap biting into her, the loft as she broke gravity, and over the gangbanger's howl and Dar singing Alleluia! the tires left the earth and with a spine-shattering crunch they rolled, and rolled, and rolled, and rolled.

XXVIII

Every muscle in his body tensed as Amado watched one of the men force Isobel around the corner of the barn. He couldn't see what was happening there, and he was too far away to stop it even if he could. He inhaled. The lady priest was right, he needed to be smart. The gunman was going to imprison her in the barn.

Unless he was going to rape her. Or kill her.

He waited for a scream. A shot. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the gunman reappeared, taking up his guard position. He exhaled. She was in the barn, then.

"Hey!" The man yelled in Spanish. "Victor!"

"Yeah?" Victor was the downslope guard.

"You ready?"

"Hell, no. How are we going to do it, anyway? It's a stupid idea. We should just wait until Alejandro gets back."

"I'm not risking him getting mad. I have an idea."

"What, wave your lighter under the barn? You're full of shit, Ferdo."

"Set the hay bales on fire."

Victor paused. "That might work." He sounded surprised.

Amado waited for a protest, a plea, some movement from the barn. Nothing. Then he shook his head. Idiot. The Christies couldn't understand a word. They had no warning. What should he do? How could he save Isobel when there was an open field and two men with guns between them?

Ferdo snagged one bale by its cord and set it on end. He picked up a second and a third, balancing each on its square end. He dug into his pants pocket. "If you see anybody moving in there, shoot them, okay?" A small flame sprang from his fingers. Amado knew it was a lighter, but from this distance, Ferdo looked like a devil summoning fire to torment the damned.

"I've got a better idea." Victor swung his arm up and shot into the wide shadowed rectangle of the second-floor door. Amado heard yells and shouts from the interior. Victor squeezed off another shot.

On the other side of the barn, the tops of all three hay bales were smoking. Small pennants of flame fluttered, danced, then unfurled into sheets of red and orange. Ferdo grabbed one by its lower half and pitched it into the barn. Yells and screams were cut off as Victor put another bullet through the door. Ferdo tossed the second bale in. Then the third.

Victor's gun blasted one more time. "I think that'll do it."

"Should I get my cell phone? To take pictures? Out here in the boonies, who's going to know what they got?"

"Don't worry. Word will get around." Smoke roiled away from the side of the barn where Ferdo had thrown the hay in.

"Should we let the girl out?" Ferdo asked. "We could bang her."

"That cold-blooded bitch? Forget it. I could find a hotter lay in a convent."

"At the end of your right arm, you mean."

"Better than some of the dogs you do."

Over the increasing roar of the fire, Amado heard a distant metallic scrunch, wrench, smash, repeated over and over. He whirled around. Birds twittered and cawed. Nothing moved along the road or among the trees.

"What the hell?" one of the men said.

Amado spun back. This was his chance. He sprinted from the rhododendron bush to the roadway, staying out of sight of the meadow. He cupped his hands around his mouth. God, make me a mimic. "Victor! Ferdo!"

"Alejandro? Is that you?"

"Get over here and help me, you stupid sons of whores! She's getting away!" He jogged a few feet down the road and shouted, "She's running toward the farm! She'll call the police! Follow me!" He ran another five yards. "Hurry, you fools! Help me catch her!" He spotted the huge granite stone and dove behind it. Seconds later, Victor and Ferdo thundered past, already panting as if they'd run a mile. For a moment he was tempted to run after them, to smash into their backs and roll them into the dirt, to batter their faces until there was nothing left but blood and bone. Octavio. Oh, my brother.

But Octavio was dead. He had to help the living. He rose and ran for the field, for the barn, for Isobel.

XXIX

She opened her eyes. The windshield had cracked into a hundred pieces, diffusing blue and green and white over the airbags, deflating like emptied bladders. She hung upside down from her shoulder strap and seat belt. The roof, the doors, the floor looked like the inside of a tube of toothpaste after a series of good squeezes.

She looked to her right. The gunman was crumpled between the dashboard and the passenger seat. Parts of him were at odd angles, and blood from a gash on his head sheeted over his face. She swallowed. Tried to feel some stirring of compassion, but all she could see was Octavio sitting in that now-empty seat as she told him, You're safe. Everything's going to be okay. Another failing to add to her many failures as a priest.

Her door wouldn't unlatch and her window wouldn't roll down. She braced her back against the seat and planted her feet on either side of the steering wheel. She reached down with one hand to support herself against the roof. It took her three tries to unbuckle her belt. When it clicked open, she jammed herself in place, muscles screaming, and hand by foot by foot let herself down.

She inched forward along the inside of the roof and, twisting sideways, kicked out the remains of the windshield. She crawled past the steering wheel, beneath the slab of the car's buckled, battered hood, chunks of safety glass embedding in her palms and catching in her dress. She squirmed through the narrow space between grass and steel and then she was free, rolling onto her back, breathing deep, looking at the dazzling sky arching over her.

Finally she said, "Thank you, God," and staggered to her feet. It felt like she'd been worked over with a lead pipe. Her poor car was totaled. Another one. She lifted her eyes to the hills. From whence my help cometh. USAA was going to cancel her. Her parishioners would start calling her the Reverend Stephanie Plum.

She had been staring at a column of smoke for a while before she snapped to and realized it marked the location of the barn. She shuddered. Call the fire department. She glanced at the wreckage of her little red Subaru. Her phone was in there, somewhere. Walk down to the house and call? Hike up and tackle the next two bad guys? Lie down and wait for help? That last was appealing. They could send an ambulance for her. Maybe she could get a bed next to Russ.

Damn, I'd like a happy ending for a change.

She smiled a little.

Now let's go deal with the unhappy ending.

"Sure. You're flat on your back in the hospital. Easy for you to say." She started back up the slope toward the forest, stepping over the deep gouges her car had scraped into the soil. She was almost to the tree line when a rumble and whine made her turn around. A yellow Aztek was jouncing across the field. It skidded to a stop next to the wreckage of her car. Hadley Knox leaped out.

"Hey!" Clare shouted. "Leave him! Up here! Up here!"

Hadley said something to the driver, then jumped back in. The SUV roared upslope and braked next to Clare. She grabbed the back door handle and hauled herself inside. Kevin Flynn and Hadley were twisted in their seats, staring at her. "Up this road," she said. "Two more of the gang. And something's on fire."

"Shouldn't you wait for the EMTs?" Kevin said. "You look like hell."

"Go," Clare snapped.

"Yes, ma'am," Kevin said, and the Aztek surged forward.

Hadley unhooked the mic from the radio and switched it on. "Harlene, this is Knox, do you copy?"

"I copy you, Hadley."

"Our eighty is a road behind the Christie pasture, heading up the mountain. We have two injured, two reported suspects at large, and a remote fire. Please send Fire and Rescue."

"Copy that. Fire and Rescue on their way."

Kevin motioned for the mic. Hadley handed it over. "Be advised non-four-wheel-drive vehicles will have very slow going." They hit a root and bounced in their seats, emphasizing Kevin's point.

"Will advise."

Kevin handed the mic back to Hadley. "Knox out-holy shit, Flynn, watch out!" As they came around a bend, the two remaining gang members appeared, stumbling down the rutted road.

Kevin stood on the brakes. Hadley's door was open before they skidded to a stop inches from the wide-eyed pair. She leaped from the vehicle, gun drawn. "Police!" she yelled. "Get down on the ground!"

The men looked as if they wanted to resist but were too winded. They flopped their arms toward their waists, bending over, sucking in air. Kevin jumped out of the Aztek. He and Hadley advanced on the gangbangers, weapons ready. "Down… on… the… ground!" Hadley shouted. The two men fell onto the dirt. Hadley trained her gun on them while Kevin cuffed them and removed their weapons. He twisted one man's hand up, showing cryptic symbols tattooed on his fingers.

Clare got out. Through the screen of leaves and pine boughs, she could see the black smoke rising. "We need to hurry. Amado and Isabel Christie are up there with her brothers."

Hadley and Kevin looked at each other. "Plastic strap their ankles," Kevin said. "Leave 'em at the side of the road to be picked up later."

Hadley nodded. Removed a narrow white plastic loop from her belt. In less than a minute, both men were trussed like turkeys and safely out of the path of traffic. Hadley and Kevin climbed back into his truck. "Who's The Man?" Kevin said, starting up the engine. "Who's The Man?"

Hadley made a noncommittal noise.

They ascended the mountain much faster than Clare had in her Subaru. Kevin jounced through gullies and roared over washboard ridges that sent the Aztek airborne, evidently much less worried about his suspension than Clare had been.

They blasted through the forest fringe into an upper meadow obscured by a heavy haze of white smoke. Clare could see fire and a trace of the outline of the barn, but nothing else.

"Careful," she said. "There's a Humvee and a white van around here somewhere."

Kevin inched toward the barn. A noise split the air like the clap of doom, a twisted mix of snapping wood and screaming metal.

"What in God's name was that?" Hadley pulled her gun again.

The barn appeared out of the smoke as they rolled closer: first the outline, still holding against the sheets of flame roaring out the two doorways, then the texture, paint bubbling, wood charring, and finally-

"What the hell?" Kevin hit the brakes. The Humvee Clare had warned them about was backing away from the lower edge of the barn. Its grill was crumpled. One light hung from its socket like an eyeball in a horror comic. As they watched, the Humvee sped forward and rammed into the side of the barn. Burning clapboards toppled onto the hood. "Holy crow. That idiot's going to blow that car up." Kevin backed the Aztek away and turned off the engine. "Come on," he said. "Reverend Clare, stay here."

"You know, everyone always says that to me." She tumbled out of the SUV. The smoke stung her eyes and burned in her throat. She tried to take shallow breaths. "I'm going to find Amado and Isabel."

She didn't wait for a reply. "Amado," she shouted. "Isabel!" She struck out toward the uphill side, coughing, eyes watering. The smoke was everywhere, thick, sweet-smelling, not sooty like a wood fire, not green-scented like hay. Her head spun.

It's pot, you idiot. The barn wasn't for storing hay. Holy God. Her freshman roommate, who had arrived at UVA with twenty ounces of Acapulco Gold, would have been in heaven. She was stumbling around the world's biggest joint. "Isabel! Amado!" She tottered up the gentle rise, keeping well away from the barn. Chunks of timber were crashing down into the interior. Clapboards peeled away and tumbled to the grass. Sparks showered through the air like dandelion seeds. They had to get out of here. The forest was dry. If the wind picked up, they could be trapped like animals in one of those Discovery Channel specials.

Where the animals were trapped by fire. Not one where they mated. She giggled. Thought of Russ. Thought of Hadley repeating, All normal physical functions. Giggled again. She was laughing when she stumbled up to the edge of an oval fire pond, and there were Amado and Isabel, chest deep in water, cradling an unconscious, bloody man between them while streams of marijuana smoke curled around them.

"Reverend Clare!" Isabel waved. Amado smiled a huge smile. They both looked very, very happy. "He is alive! He really is!"

"Oh, my gracious Lord," Clare said. "It's a big bong."

You are stoned out of your gourd. Shake it off and think straight or you're all going to die out here.

"What are you two doing in there?"

"My brother Bruce got shot. He's knocked out. When we couldn't get him away, Amado thought of getting into the water." She looked at him with adoring, dilated eyes. "He's my hero." She turned back to Clare. "I wanted to leave Bruce to roast, but Amado wouldn't." She turned to him again. "You're the best person I ever met. Did I tell you that?"

"Oh. That's beautiful." Clare waded into the water. "And it's good, because you're not supposed to leave people to die. You two are beautiful. You wanna get married? 'Cause I can marry you. Legal and all."

There was another boom. The Humvee trying to batter its way into the barn. The sound sobered Clare for a moment. "What's going on over there?"

"Donald. And Neil. They figgured if they could get to the stuff underneath that hadn't burned yet, they could save some. They been hiding it ever since they stole it. 'Sworth a lot of money. There's a lot in there."

Clare filled her lungs. "I can tell." She laughed. "Okay, this is serious. We brought a four-wheel-drive up here. Come with me. Let's all get in and get the hell away from here."

"You said hell." Isabel tugged at Amado's sleeve. He smiled amiably and followed her, dragging Bruce Christie's limp form behind him.

"Yeah. I used to swear a lot. I had to give it up when I became a priest." Clare ducked beneath the water, drenching herself, then led the happy pair toward where she thought the Aztek was parked.

She found it, after several more deep breaths of smoke. She helped Amado wrestle Bruce inside. Isabel clambered over the two men.

Clare looked around the interior. It was a lot smaller with three people in the back. "I dunno how we're going to fit your other brothers in here."

"Oh, let 'em burn and die," Isabel said cheerfully. "Burn and die, burn and die."

"Be nice, now," Clare said. "Okay, I'm going to find Kevin and Hadley." She turned on the Aztek's engine and cranked the AC and blowers on high. "I'll be right back."

She slammed the door shut and staggered toward the downslope side of the barn. "Hadley! Kevin!" A flash in the corner of her eye made her turn so quickly she staggered and fell down. A wall of flame had exploded at the edge of the field, clawing up into the trees, racing along the grass. Toward the narrow mountain road. "Lord a-mercy. That's not good."

There was another boom. She stumbled toward the sound. "Hadley! Kevin!"

"Here! Over here!" She followed Hadley's voice, to find the woman tugging on Kevin's arm. "Come on, Flynn. You aren't going to stop them."

"I can do it," he said. "I'm a good shot. I'm a really good shot." He swayed.

"He wants to shoot their tires out," Hadley said. "Like the kid in the movie. 'You'll shoot your eye out!' " She giggled.

As Clare watched, the Humvee backed up for another run at the barn. She had to hand it to them; those things were built like tanks. Then Kevin brought his gun up and dropped into a shooting stance. Which would have been more impressive if he wasn't listing like a sinking ship.

"No!" Hadley yelled.

Clare rammed her shoulder into Kevin's arms as he squeezed the trigger. His shot went off overhead. He staggered upright and looked at Clare reproachfully. His eyes were dilated black. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Kevin, you can't aim. You're stoned. You're under the influence of illegal drugs."

"Am not!"

"Are so."

"You guys." Hadley shook her head, trying to stop laughing. "The whole damn mountain's going to go up in a minute."

The Humvee roared forward. Flames shot out from beneath the hood. It hit the barn. Cracked stone crumbled, battered beams fell, and bale after bale of shrink-wrapped marijuana tumbled out of the broken wall, like the payout from an enormous slot machine.

"Whoa," Kevin said.

The Humvee blew up.

The pressure wave knocked Clare and the officers to the ground. A fireball shot into the sky, chewing and charring the remains of the barn, and an irregular skirt of fire ripped across the grass from the inferno of twisted metal and glass.

"Holy shit." Hadley pushed up from the ground. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

They ran for the Aztek. Kevin scrambled into the driver's seat, while Clare and Hadley wedged into the passenger side.

"You sure you can drive?" Hadley said.

" 'Course I can," Kevin said, throwing his SUV into gear. "I'm a good driver. I'm a very good driver."

"Nobody's a good driver when they're high."

"I'm not high! I've never gotten high in my life." He hit the gas.

"God, Flynn. I don't think anyone could be more vanilla unless they were Amish. I'm sorry I debauched you, now."

"Okay, everybody? Hold on. We have to drive really really fast through this fire here." He accelerated toward a wall of flame.

Isabel screamed. "No!" Clare shouted. "You idiot!" Hadley yelled. Then they were in it, and then they were through, jouncing and plunging, careening down the narrow road, bouncing like popcorn kernels inside the SUV.

"We're gonna die," Isabel said tearfully. "We're gonna die." Amado recited something over and over. Clare thought it was the Hail Mary. She dug her hands into the sides of the seat and hung on for dear life.

"That wasn't debauchery. That was love." Kevin's voice softened, although his foot was as heavy as ever. "Love, love, love," he sang.

"Aw, Flynn. I'm sorry. I was harshin' you. You're a good man. You're too good for me."

Clare felt tears welling up in her eyes. "You guys are beautiful. You wanna get married? I can do it, you know. Just say the word."

XXX

Lyle MacAuley rolled his cruiser to a stop between Flynn's Aztek and the crumpled remains of Clare Fergusson's car. Beside him, one of the responding EMT crews worked to extricate someone from the upside-down wreck. Christly hell. If he had to tell Russ she was-he wouldn't do it. He'd go home, get his things together, and leave for Florida.

He got out of his unit. Behind him, the last of the Millers Kill Volunteer Fire Department trucks screamed uphill toward the mountain road. The Corinth and Lake Luzerne departments were on the way.

"Whaddaya got?"

"One guy. Broken collarbone, two broken legs. Concussion, probably." The EMT leaned back so Lyle could get a glimpse. "Know him?"

Lyle looked at the studs and tattoos. "Not as well as I'm going to." He straightened. "Was there a woman inside?"

"Nope."

Thank God for that. So where the hell was she? And where were Kevin and Hadley? He heard a noise. Circled, slowly, trying to pinpoint it. Coming from Kevin's Aztek. He walked closer. It was… what the hell?… voices. A bunch of 'em. Singing "All You Need Is Love."