One Was a Soldier

– The Great Litany, The Book of Common Prayer

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

Sarah was late to her own group session. She scurried down the hallway, her footsteps slapping the linoleum flooring and echoing off the walls in a syncopated beat to the shouts of young men and the thud of the basketball. She opened the door too hard, slamming it against the wall accidentally. They were all there; McCrea and Stillman bookending the group, Fergusson hunched over her cup of coffee, McNabb stuffing an iPod into her too-tight jeans, Will Ellis smiling at nothing. Sarah felt like pitching her notebook and pen and shrieking at them all to go home. She wasn’t reaching these people. She wasn’t helping them. She’d never been any closer to a war zone than downtown Newark. What in the name of little green apples did she think she could accomplish here?

Fergusson looked up at her, her face pale with fatigue. Studied her for a moment that must have been shorter than it felt. Then she rose from her rickety metal chair, smiling. “Sarah. Thank goodness. We were getting worried.” She crossed the floor and touched Sarah on the arm, once, giving her a squeeze that seemed to say, I know, and it’s all right. “Let me get you something. Coffee? Somebody’s made hot cider in the Crockpot. Probably fresh from Greuling’s Orchards.” She looked at Sarah again, more closely, and for a second, Sarah wanted to lean against the priest, to feel someone taking care of her for a change, and then she snapped herself like a sheet and thought, Oh, no, you don’t. I’ve got your number now. Fergusson was a caretaker. That explained the way she only really became engaged when she was bucking up Will or settling down McCrea.

“Thank you, Clare, that would be nice.” She let Fergusson fetch her the hot cider while she sat down, surreptitiously rolling her shoulders to get the last of the tension out, smiling at the others. When Fergusson handed her the paper cup, she let her eyes open just a bit wider than usual, showing her vulnerability and her gratitude. A little manipulative, maybe, but if she could use the moment to crack open Fergusson’s closed book, it would be worth it.

“We’ve talked about homecoming,” Sarah said. “We’ve talked about work, and about personal relationships.” She took a sip of the cider. Heavenly. “But all that is background. Reconnoitering the terrain. Tonight, we’re going to begin to dig deeper. The real issues, and the real work, are inside each of you. Tonight, we’re going to talk about why you decided to attend this group, and what you hope to get out of counseling.”

Tally McNabb glanced at McCrea, who bent over to rub a nonexistent speck from his hiking boots. Trip Stillman shifted in his seat. Clare Fergusson pinched her ring between two fingers and stared at it. Will Ellis looked up toward the sound-tiled ceiling.

Sarah let the silence lengthen. “Anyone?” More shifting, more looking at the floor or knees or coffee cups. “Somebody has to be first.”

“I came here because I want to know how to leave what happened in-country behind.”

They all stared at Tally McNabb. Her chin was tucked down, and she wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, but she went on. “I did some things I shouldn’t have. Stuff I thought would stay there.” She pressed her mouth into a hard line. Sarah waited, one beat, two, for her to go on.

Finally, Fergusson leaned way forward so she could look up into Tally’s face. “But it didn’t.”

Tally shook her head, sending her straight, blunt hair jerking left, right, left. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.” She lifted her eyes and looked around the circle. “Everything seemed so clear-cut over there. Now I’m home, and I can’t get a fix on anything anymore. My relationship with my husband’s totally screwed up. My job is-” She dropped her head again. “My boss told me today he wants to send me back. As part of the construction team.”

“What?” McCrea stared.

“You’re kidding!” Stillman rocked back in his chair.

“Oh, no,” Fergusson said.

“It’s not like being on frontline duty. I’d be financial administrator for the ongoing projects. Probably get to spend ninety percent of my time behind a desk in the Green Zone.”

There was an awful silence. Everyone, including Sarah, knew there was no such thing as “behind the lines” in Iraq.

“How do you feel about this?” Sarah asked.

Through the thick cotton of her hooded sweatshirt, Tally rubbed the spot where her arm was tattooed. “How do I feel?” She looked at Sarah. “Like I’ve been locked in a box.”

“Do you feel like you’d like to discuss your options with the group?” Sarah kept her voice low and level.

“No. I don’t have any options.”

“You can always find something positive about any situation,” Will Ellis said.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Why don’t you just grow up and drop the damn pep talks already?” Tally shoved her face toward Will. “At least I can admit my life’s in the toilet.”

“What?” Will glared at her. “What do you want me to say? That I lost my goddamn legs? That I’m never going to walk again, I’ve got no goddamn prospects, and I’m going to wind up spending the rest of my life with my parents taking care of me? That make you happy?”

Trip Stillman shook his head. “There’s no reason you can’t-”

“And what’s your problem?” Will turned on the older man. “I haven’t heard anything out of you other than it’s been a pain cycling in and out of country for three-month rotations.”

Stillman sat up straight and angled his body so that he somehow seemed to be wearing an invisible white coat. “I, um, believe I’m showing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“From what?” Eric McCrea said. “You didn’t get the DVDs you wanted in your air-conditioned lounge? You guys live like four-stars in those combat support hospitals. What the hell kind of stress could you have?”

“I wasn’t in a CSH. I was at a Forward Response Station, and the only AC we had was in the operating rooms.”

“Oh, cry me a fucking river. You wanna know what stress is? Try guarding a bunch of insurgents who’d just as soon kill you as look at you. Trying to get intel out of these fuckers, knowing they’ve got information that will kill Americans locked up in their heads, but for God’s sake, you gotta respect their rights and their religion and their culture. Then a bunch of fucking pictures that never should have been taken get out into the damn media-from another fucking prison entirely!-and suddenly everybody looks at you like you’ve been putting electrodes on Achmed’s balls.”

“Were you?” Fergusson asked.

“What?”

“Were you torturing prisoners?”

“No! Jesus! Whaddaya think I am?”

“I think you’re a good cop. I’m also thinking maybe a good cop who gets coerced or convinced to do bad things is going to wind up feeling pretty awful about it, later on.”

Sarah cut in before Fergusson could take over as therapist. “Hold it.” She made a time-out gesture. “Just hold it. Group therapy means we’re working together to find out what we need to know. We offer observations in positive ways. We don’t gang up and attack each other.” She looked around the circle, taking her time, making eye contact with each one of them. “I repeat. We’re going to talk about why you decided to get into the group.” She zeroed in on Fergusson. “Clare, we’re starting with you.”

FRIDAY, AUGUST 26

Clare eyed the glass of Macallan’s balanced on her porcelain sink. Why had she brought it in here, when she was brushing her teeth? Was she going to gargle with it? She spat, rinsed, wiped her mouth dry. She considered lipstick. She didn’t usually wear makeup, but this was a special occasion. She thought it was a special occasion. She thought she might be getting engaged. She closed her hand around the heavy square glass and downed half the Scotch in one gulp.

The bell rang. She put down the glass and hustled down the stairs to her almost-never-used front door. “Why so formal?” she was asking as she opened the door, but the sight of Russ in a suit and tie made her lose whatever else she was going to say.

“What?” He peered down at his tie. “Do I have a spot?”

“I’ve never seen you dressed up before.” She splayed her hand against her chest. “I’m speechless.”

“That’ll be the day.” He stepped in, and she backed away to circle around him.

She whistled. “You clean up real nice, Chief Van Alstyne.”

“You like it? You should see my dress uniform. Makes me look like an extra in Naughty Marietta. ”

“Does it have a Sam Browne belt?”

“No, thank God. That’s a little too disciplinarian for my tastes.” He caught her hand. “Nice dress. You wore it at that dance in the park.”

“Mm-hmm.” She twirled, letting yards of poppy red silk wind around her legs. “I remembered you liked it.”

He smiled slowly at her. “Maybe we should just order a pizza and stay here.”

“Tempting.” She considered it for a moment. True to his word, Russ hadn’t been to her bed since the night she had found him waiting for her after the Ellises’ dinner. On the other hand, she had been promised a date. One date in four years. That didn’t seem like asking too much. “Maybe later. I want my chance to go to the ball.”

“Okay, Cinderella. Grab your wrap and let’s go.”

Outside, he opened his truck’s door and handed her in. “Where are we going?”

“You like miniature golf?”

She stared at him. “You’re joking.” He got behind the wheel and backed out of her driveway. “You are joking, right?”

He grinned at her. The windows were open, of course-he didn’t believe in air-conditioning unless the truck was going sixty-so she braced her elbow on the edge and showily propped her chin on her hand, staring outside as if the end-of-the-day shoppers and dog walkers were the most interesting things she’d seen that week. Russ looped around to Barkley Avenue, and she spotted the director of the Millers Kill Historical Society unlocking her car. Clare waved. “Hi, Roxanne!”

“What are you doing?”

“Just making sure we maintain our status as a hot topic of conversation.”

“Great. Now I know what’ll be first on the agenda at their next board meeting.”

“What? The two of us in your truck on a Friday evening? That’s positively wholesome. It’s not like anybody’s been able to see you sneaking into the rectory at all hours.”

“Jesus, it’s been less than a week. I had no idea you were such a sex fiend.”

Clare crossed her arms. “There’s such a thing as carrying discretion too far.”

“Not when you’re a minister in a small town, there isn’t.”

She sighed. “I know-but I don’t have to like it.”

He laughed. “How you made it through seminary and into the priesthood remains a mystery to me.”

“To you and the bishop both.” They had left the town behind, headed northeast. “Are we going to Lake George?” Russ didn’t say anything. “We are. We’re going to Lake George. Okay, what do you have to get dressed up for in Lake George?”

“Maybe I’m being all whimsical and we’re going for Italian sausage on the Boardwalk.”

She gave him a look. “Whimsical?”

“Hey, I can be as whimsical as the next guy.”

“That’s because to you, the next guy is a humorless law enforcement agent.”

He laughed and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She had a hunch about where they were going, but she kept her mouth shut over her smile. She didn’t want to take away a second of his pleasure at surprising her. She leaned back and watched the road slice between the lake and the mountains.

Sure enough, he slowed and pulled into a long drive marked by an understated white and green sign.

“The Sagamore!” She clapped in approval. “I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard Mrs. Marshall and Sterling Sumner talk about it.” Two of her vestry had summer homes on the lake. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

The drive crossed a wooden bridge and wound past clay tennis courts and crisp white bungalows before terminating at the entrance of the grand old resort. The parking valet opened her door before she had a chance to do it herself. “Checking in, sir?” the young man asked.

“Just dinner.” Russ handed him the keys.

“Darn,” Clare said, under her breath.

“Be good.” Russ ushered her up the porticoed steps. “We may be out of town, but this place gets a lot of local business. I figure we still have a twenty-five percent chance of running into someone we know.”

“So, no footsie during dinner?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Let’s see how long the tablecloth is.”

It was very long, and very white, in a dining room with the understated elegance that came with years of service to old money. Clare could see other diners, silver gleaming, glasses raised, but the heavy carpets and the plush chairs seemed to absorb the sound of clinking and conversation before it could reach them.

She blanched when she saw the prices on the menu, then thought of her grandmother’s dictum, A lady never notices the cost of her dinner, and kept her eyes left. In deference to Russ’s budget and his nondrinking status, she skipped the wine list and had the waiter bring her a whisky neat before the meal, and a single glass of merlot to accompany her beef Wellington. Oh, and all right, a nice little aperitif after, but she didn’t order dessert, and only took two bites of Russ’s key lime pie.

They talked nonstop through dinner, about the volunteer fair at the church and firearms training at the department; about gun surrender programs and going green at work. She admitted she was still trying to find a way to talk Will Ellis into therapy, and he told her he was worried about Eric McCrea’s two unexplained absences the last two weeks.

The coffees came and went, and she started to think she must have been wrong, that he wasn’t going to pop the question that night, when the waiter returned with the bill tucked inside a leather folder and Russ asked, “What’s going on outside? I keep hearing music.”

“Private party. The two weekends around Labor Day are our busiest of the year.”

Russ looked up from where he was signing the charge slip. “Oh. Can we still get down to the landing?”

This is it, she thought. Is this it?

“You certainly can, sir. The terrace isn’t closed to the public.”

Russ looked at Clare. “Feel like a little walk? There’s a great view of the lake from the boat landing.”

“Absolutely.” She pushed her chair back, and the waiter nipped in to pull it out of her way. Russ stood at the same time, snagging her wrap and draping it over her shoulders. She hid a smile, thinking how much her grandmother would have loved his manners. Her highest praise for a man had been “His mother raised him right.”

The back of the resort-or front, she supposed, if one arrived by boat-consisted of wide wings with deep porches leading down to a terrace thronged with people drinking, dancing, and talking too loudly. A white tent had been set up on the side lawn, sheltering tables, and a four-piece band tucked between the porch steps and the flower beds played Motown classics. Russ took her hand, and they walked down to the flagstones, skirting the party.

“What’s going on?” Clare craned her neck, looking for a bride and groom. Someone shrieked, there was a flurry of movement, and a heavyset young man stumbled into their path. Russ caught him by his coat sleeves before he could fall on his face.

“Easy there, buddy.” Russ righted the man, who swayed for a moment like a potted plant teetering back to level.

“Whoa. Thanks. Guess I’m a li’l juiced.”

“Is this a wedding?” Clare asked, amused.

The young man shook his head, which set him to swaying again. “’Sa company party. BWI Opperman.” He smiled proudly. “Great year, with alla construction.”

She wasn’t looking at Russ, but she could feel him stiffen. Talk about spoiling the mood. She wasn’t any fan of the owner of the Algonquin Waters Resort, but Russ held a personal grudge against the man he felt had driven a wedge between himself and Linda. She hooked her arm in his. “Have a great time,” she told the genial drunk, steering Russ toward the lawn.

She dragged him the first few steps, and then he gave himself a shake. “God. Opperman.”

“Forget about him. He’s here, he’s a part of the landscape, there’s nothing you or I can do about it.” She looked up into his frowning face. “Weren’t you going to show me the boat landing?”

He made a noise. Pointed away from the terrace. They walked across the lawn, sloping gently toward the black waters of Lake George. “Why the hell did he relocate up here? What was wrong with Baltimore? Isn’t that where the business originated?”

“Easier to hide the bodies up here in the mountains.”

He stopped. “Not funny.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry.” She turned to face him again. “I’m guessing he’s relocated because there’s a large pool of affordable workers up here. The resorts are only the tail end of the business, remember. It’s primarily development and construction.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is why the hell he can’t go to Alabama for his cheap labor, like everyone else.”

She paused again. They were nearer to the water than to the terrace now. She could hear the lapping of the waves and the wind sighing through the leaves of the trees shading the paths leading down to the landing. Mellow lights picked out the texture of crushed rock and velvety lawn. The sweet and peppery scent of unseen carnations drifted up from stone planters. “Russ.”

“Yeah?”

“I think this is very romantic, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He led her onto the landing, their shoes thunking and clacking on the wood. He stopped. Looked at her. “You do?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled at him in an encouraging fashion. “I think this is just about the most romantic place I’ve seen in the entire North Country.”

He grinned at her. “This is your way of telling me I should keep my mind on the business at hand, isn’t it?”

“That’s not precisely how I would have stated it, but…”

“This isn’t a surprise to you, is it?”

She started to laugh. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“God.” He wiped his hand over his face. “Okay, let’s see if I can get this done without making a complete idiot of myself.”

“Please feel free. I don’t mind.”

“That’s good. Because half the time, just being with you reduces me to a state of idiocy.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “What about the other half?”

He took her hands. “The other half of the time, it’s like being at the summit of one of the high peaks with a stiff wind blowing. Terrifying and exhilarating and everything in the world in a completely new perspective.”

Her smile fell away.

“You make me… not better than I am, but more of who I am. Which is better. Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded. She didn’t think she could speak if her life depended on it. He glanced down at the wooden deck with a dubious expression. One side of his mouth quirked up. “I hope you didn’t have your heart set on me getting down on one knee.”

She shook her head. He reached inside his coat pocket. Took out a small box. Pried the lid open. Even in the dim light from the lanterns, the ring sparked like white fire. “Marry me. Please.”

She tried to answer him, but all that came out was a whispery rattle as her lungs emptied. She took a deep breath. Tried again. “Yes.”

“You don’t need to tell me right away,” he said. “I mean, maybe you ought to think about it.”

“Yes,” she said more firmly.

“I am fifty-two. And I’m planning to stay in Millers Kill. I mean, I suppose I could move after I retire, but I’m committed to heading up the force as long as-”

“Russ. I’m trying to say yes, here. I will marry you. I want to marry you. Let’s do it.”

“Really? I don’t want you to jump into anything without thinking it through.”

She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Can I put it on?”

He pulled the ring out of its holder. Her hands were shaking so, she almost dropped it. He helped her slide it onto her finger. It was smooth and heavy, with three diamonds set low in fat circles of gold. “It fits.”

“I, uh, took your UVA ring off your dresser to size it.”

“Very sneaky.” She grinned up at him. “I like that in a man.” She flung her arms around him and he squeezed her back. “I love it.” She kissed him, a jubilant smack that turned into a long, sweet kiss that left her breathless. “I love you.”

“Good. How soon can we get married?”

“Let’s see. First, I have to get permission from the bishop.”

He released her. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Holy-I don’t have to go and ask him for your hand, do I?”

“No, it’s more like-a professional courtesy. Once I have his blessing, let’s see. We’ll get married at St. Alban’s. I could ask one of my friends from seminary to take the service… or maybe Julie McPartlin here in Lake George could officiate. She could do our counseling.”

“What counseling?”

“We have to have three or four sessions of premarital counseling before being married in the church.”

“For what?”

“For all sorts of things. When I meet with engaged couples, we discuss issues like sex-”

“I’m for it.” He kissed her neck.

She smiled. “And money-”

“You can handle it,” he said into her ear.

“And children.”

He stopped. “We haven’t talked about children.” He pulled away from her, his hands still on her shoulders. “How do you feel about having kids?”

“How do you feel?”

“Honestly?” He blew out a breath. “I like kids. I hoped-when Linda and I were young, we tried for a long time.”

She bit her lip. “How about now?”

He rubbed his thumbs along her collarbone. “I think I’m too old. Even if we had a kid right off the bat, I’d still be seventy-two or seventy-three when he graduated from college. If I make it that long. I just don’t think it’s fair, to give a child an old guy with bad knees as a father.”

She nodded.

“How about you?” His face was intent, serious. It should be serious. They were deciding things that would affect the rest of their lives tonight. The immensity of marriage, everything it would be, suddenly stretched out before her like the waters of the lake, wide and deep and full of unfathomable mystery. How about you? She weighed her answer.

“I like children, too, and there’s a part of me that would very much like to be a mother. But my ministry takes so much of my time and attention and emotional energy-all the things I’d have to give to a child. I don’t know if I could be a good priest and a good parent.”

“So… no?”

She paused. “No.” Then she hugged him hard, burying her face in his shirt, because even though it felt right, it was still a kind of a loss.

“Maybe a dog.”

“A big, hairy dog?”

“Sure. It can hang around the church office with you and terrorize the vestry when they get out of line.”

She laughed. “It’s a deal.” She stepped back, tugging at his hands. All at once she couldn’t wait another minute to let everyone know. “Let’s go home. I want to call my parents, and your mother, and Dr. Anne, and everybody.”

“Whoa.” He laughed, but he let her drag him off the landing and onto the path anyway. “You still haven’t told me when.”

“Advent’s out, and Christmas and Epiphany are crazy. Late January? That’s when I usually take a week off. Of course, that might be a difficult time to travel. I don’t know if I can persuade my family to leave southern Virginia when we’ve got three feet of snow and single-digit temperatures.” She stopped. “Oh, good Lord. My mother is going to birth a live cow over this. She didn’t ever think I was going to land a husband.”

“January?” He shook his head. “Can’t we just do it quick and simple? The last time, all I needed was a license and twenty-five bucks for the justice of the peace.”

Clare bit her lip. “Oh, God, Russ, I don’t know. Yes, we could get married within sixty days of notifying the rector.”

“Consider yourself notified.”

“You have to understand, though, my mother’s been planning table arrangements and picking out silver patterns since Grace and I were toddlers. She never had the chance to put on her dream wedding for Grace.”

“Is that what you want? A big blowout?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then let’s make it easy and quick. You don’t need any more stress in your life than you already have. Get a pretty dress and some flowers, we’ll let your church ladies bake us a cake, and boom, it’s done.” He did something she had never seen him do before. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “We’ve lost too much time already.”

And we don’t know how much time we’ve got.

She nodded. “The end of October, then.”

A woman screamed. Russ’s head jerked up and Clare whirled. Above them, on the terrace, a knot of bodies thinned out to reveal two men stripping off their jackets, circling each other. The band wheezed to a stop. She could hear the woman again, shrill and tearful, and excited shouts, egging the fighters on.

“Oh, for chrissakes. Why do people drink if it just makes ’em mean?” Russ pushed past her, tugging his badge holder from his pocket and flipping it open. “Stay back.”

She nodded, but of course, he couldn’t see her. She watched him force his way into the crowd gathering around the spectacle, then lost sight of him. She stood on tiptoe. Cursed under her breath. The lawn in front of the tent would give her a better vantage point. Admittedly, it was closer to the fight-a lot closer-but she could argue that it still qualified as “staying back.”

She clutched her wrap more firmly around her shoulders and strode toward the tent. Over the eager sounds of the crowd, she thought she could hear Russ’s deep voice, trying to calm things down.

Call 911. The thought was immediately followed by the realization that she’d deliberately left her cell phone in Russ’s truck. No calls from parishioners on her big date, nosirree. She could have whacked herself in the head. Then she spotted a woman with a phone. She was talking into it, rapidly, quietly, her shoulders set in an angry line. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” She snapped the phone shut.

“Excuse me.” Clare hated to break up someone’s special moment, but Russ needed backup. “Could you please call nine-one-one?” The woman turned to her. It was Tally McNabb.

“What? Why?” Tally frowned.

“The fight?” Clare gestured to the melee. Above the shrieking woman and the jeering guys, she could hear Russ’s voice, hard and authoritative.

“A fight?” Tally shook her head. “Christ. Sorry. I didn’t notice. I was…” She made a vague gesture in the direction of her phone. She teetered on the balls of her feet to peer over the heads of the crowd. “I think somebody’s already busting it up.”

“That’s Chief Van Alstyne, yeah, but he’s alone and-” Clare didn’t want to say “unarmed.” She compromised with “And the Lake George police ought to know.”

Tally looked at Clare more closely. “Hey. I know you.” Her mouth opened, and even in the dim light, Clare could see red rising in the younger woman’s cheeks. “It’s you.”

Clare took a breath. Attempted a smile. “Please? Call nine-one-one?”

Behind them, a smooth voice said, “No need. The hotel has already been notified.” Clare and Tally both turned.

The CEO of BWI Opperman stood behind them. His suit and shoes were hand-sewn perfection, an expensive difference that set him apart from every other man on the terrace. He held a half-empty wineglass and was looking at the knot of cheering spectators with a pained expression.

“Mr. Opperman. Hi.” Tally sounded like a high schooler dismayed to see her principal at a picnic.

“Tally McNabb. Are you enjoying yourself?” Opperman turned to Clare. “You don’t work for me.” He tilted his head to one side, as if trying to slide her image into place. She twisted her wrap, tightening it across her exposed shoulders. She could see the moment when he recognized her. “Ah. The Reverend Clare Fergusson. What a surprise. I haven’t seen you since that little hearing we had before my insurance company’s adjustment board.”

“Mr. Opperman.”

“Insurance company?” Tally said.

Opperman answered her without turning his gaze from Clare. “Reverend Fergusson went joyriding over the Adirondacks in the BWI company helicopter a few summers back and crashed the thing. It was a total loss.”

“I was trying to save the life of a man who was trapped in the mountains. He was badly injured. I didn’t have time to ask for permission to use the ship.”

“As you said, yes.” The corners of his mouth tilted upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It was fortunate for you the insurers accepted your version of the event. Pilot error would have been an ugly thing to have on your record.”

“As opposed to sabotage?”

“I believe you mean mechanical failure. That was, after all, the official verdict.”

Clare found herself wringing the ends of her shawl. Opperman had never been linked to the mysterious collapse of the fuel pump that had nearly killed her and Russ, and he never would be. Let it go. She forced her hands to relax.

He went on. “I was under the impression you had gone back to being a captain in the army. I certainly hope you haven’t wrecked any of their helicopters as well.”

She jerked her chin up. “I’m a major. In the Guard. And no, I haven’t broken any Black Hawks yet.”

“She was in Iraq, too.” Tally spoke brightly, like a woman who wanted to change the subject away from who did what to whom.

Opperman turned to her. “Did you know each other over there?”

“No. Oh, no. No reason our paths would have crossed.” Tally looked at Clare. “We’ve really only ever met once before this. Accidentally. Right?”

Clare nodded. Tally clearly didn’t want her employer to know she’d been living off the streets and using the soup kitchen. “Right.”

He smiled. “Then may I ask what you’re doing at my party? I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”

Clare flushed. “Excuse me. I walked up from the landing to see if anyone had called the police. Now I know you have, I’ll go back and wait for my date.” Involuntarily, she looked over her shoulder to the place where Russ had disappeared.

Opperman stretched up to get a better view. “Is he fighting?” His face creased, as if a row of figures didn’t add up. “No. Of course not. Van Alstyne.” His voice changed, so that when his gaze snapped back to Clare she had to keep herself from flinching. “Yes. I had heard rumors about you two…” He looked her up and down, as thoroughly and impersonally as if he were doing the last-minute flight check of a helicopter. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think Van Alstyne’s interest in you would survive his wife’s death. He adored her, you know. Still… a man in mourning needs some distraction, and you are reasonably attractive.” He zeroed in on her hands. He stared for a long moment. Finally, he said, “What an exquisite ring. I take it best wishes are in order?”

She resisted the urge to hide it from view. Grandmother Fergusson pried open her mouth and made her say, “Yes. Thank you.”

He leaned in toward Clare, close, where no one else could hear. She forced herself not to back away. “Do you really think you can compete with his wife?” His breath was hot on her face, his voice a slither in her ear. “Linda Van Alstyne was beautiful, creative, sharp-witted, loving-everything except faithful.” He blinked in slow motion. “She was certainly the best fuck I ever had.”

Clare’s jaw unhinged. “That’s a lie!”

Opperman shrugged. “Take it as a friendly warning, before you get in too deep. A man doesn’t forget a woman like that. He compares every other woman to that perfection and finds her lacking. Is that really as high as you can aim for yourself? To be the consolation prize for someone who can’t have what he really wants?”

Clare couldn’t speak. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She stood, trembling, like a battered boxer one punch away from going down. Opperman stepped toward her and she twisted away, but he walked past her as if she were already a ghost.

“Tally.” His voice was cool and even. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“Thanks, Mr. Opperman.”

Clare wanted to grab hold of Tally and drag her away from Opperman. She wanted to find the nearest shower and scrub down until she felt clean again. She wanted to look Russ in the eye and ask him, Are you really over her? Is it truly me you want?

No. That was crazy. She knew Russ, knew him like she knew the Book of Common Prayer, carried him as a lamp beneath her breastbone. Opperman was playing her.

He stepped back into her line of sight and smiled. “Excuse me, please. I’d better go see how the rest of the party is getting along.” His smile faded into a concerned expression. “Think about what I said, Major Fergusson.” He walked away into the crowd.

Clare was shaking. Tally looked at her. “What was that all about? What did he say?”

Clare shook her head.

“Hey. I owe you big-time. I was a total asshole that day at the soup kitchen. Let me make it up to you. You want a drink or something?”

Clare wanted a drink very much. She nodded. “Hey, Drago.” Tally hailed a hulking man bumping his way through the bystanders with two full glasses cupped in one giant hand. “Get this lady a drink, will ya? What are you having, Major?”

Clare took a breath. “Whisky.”

“I got a Canadian Club I was taking to Zeller.” The big guy held out a glass brimming with amber liquor. His fingers were covered in black hair. “I’ll give her mine.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Go ahead.” He deposited the glass in her hand. “You look like you need it more’n she does right now.”

“Thanks, Drago.” Tally punched him in the shoulder. Clare downed half the contents in one swallow. “Whoa. Easy there, Major.”

She squeezed her fingers around the drink until she could feel the cut edges of the crystal digging into her skin. She swallowed the rest of the whisky.

“Hell, lady, take the other one.” Drago tugged the empty glass out of her grip and placed the second drink in her hand.

“I don’t want to…” Clare’s voice trailed off. Her ring, her engagement ring, glittered and winked in the light of the torches.

Is that really as high as you can aim? To be the consolation prize for someone who can’t have what he really wants?

She held the glass close to her nose and inhaled the golden oaken smell of the whisky, closing her eyes. She could hear Tally and the big man whispering, and then Tally said, “How long you been back, Major?”

“Nine weeks.” Clare took a long drink. “Isn’t that funny. I counted every day I was in-country. I didn’t realize I was still counting here.”

“Sandbox messes up your head.” Tally ruffled her dark brown hair as if shaking bad thoughts out. “Running that soup kitchen probably doesn’t help. There are some weird people there.”

“I don’t-” Clare began.

“She doesn’t work for BWI?” Drago asked.

“Hell, Drago, does she look like a riveter or something to you? She’s ex-army. Like me.”

The big man’s face creased. “I was just gonna tell her the company’s got a doctor you can talk to for free. If she didn’t know. I dunno about the army. Can you see a VA shrink for free?” He looked down at Clare, worried.

Even shaken and slightly sloshed, Drago’s misplaced concern made her smile a little. He had clearly figured a soup kitchen employee didn’t have deep pockets.

“The problem with VA isn’t the cost. It’s getting in in the first place.” Tally unsnapped her purse and dug inside. “Look. Here’s something you should think about. No pressure, and the lady, when I called? Said they didn’t report anything to anybody if you didn’t want them to.” She handed Clare a photocopied brochure showing an American flag, an earnest and multiracial group talking, and a soldier silhouetted in the glow of a desert sunset. It was the same brochure she had tried to press on Will Ellis.

Clare let out a barking laugh. “The community center veterans group.” She handed the brochure back.

“You heard about it? Yeah, they’re starting up next week. I, um, I’m thinking of trying it out.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, Dragojesich.” Tally slugged him. “Try and show a little sensitivity here.”

“Clare?”

Over Dragojesich’s backhoe-sized shoulder, she saw Russ striding across the flagstones. Even in the flickering light, she could see his worried frown.

“Here,” she called.

He crossed to her. Took her by her upper arms and shook her slightly. “I thought you were going to stay put.”

“I’m sorry, I… I wanted a drink. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, just a couple assholes who didn’t learn how to use their words in preschool.” He spotted Tally. “Pardon my French.” He did a double take. “Ms. McNabb?”

Tally was looking from Clare to Russ and back to Clare. A knowing smile spread over her broad face. “That’s why you told me to drop your name with him.”

Russ wrapped his arm around Clare. “What?”

There was a swirl of bodies near the bar. Clare caught a glimpse of an expensive suit. “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “Are you done? Can we go now?”

“Sure. A couple uniforms from Lake George showed up. It’s their problem now.”

“Tally, thank you.”

“No prob. We even about that soup kitchen thing?”

Clare waved her free hand. “It never happened.”

“Good enough.” Tally leaned forward and snapped Clare’s clutch open. She stuffed the brochure inside. “Think about what I said, huh?”

“I will.” Clare handed the empty glass to Dragojesich. “Thank you for the drink.”

He shrugged, a movement akin to the uplift of mountains in quick time. “No thanks necessary. Those of us who been over there gotta stick together, right?”

The expensive suit seemed to be moving. Coming their way. “Right,” Clare said. “Thanks. ’Bye.” She headed off toward the porch stairs at such a clip it took Russ three or four seconds to catch up with her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You were awfully chummy with McNabb. Considering she’s the reason you sprained your ankle. You were complaining about not running just a couple days ago.”

“She apologized. I forgave her. Can we go now?”

“Are you-” He looked around them at the dancers as they passed. “Are you mad I left you alone to go stop that fight?”

She nearly tripped over her own feet. He steadied her. “Are you kidding? Of course not. That’s your job. It doesn’t end when you take the uniform off. That’s one of the things we have in common.” The booze was hitting her system, warming her from the inside out, calming her down. She smiled. “You ought to know that by now.”

He looked down at the steps as they climbed to the wide, winged porch. “I guess… Linda would’ve been. Upset, I mean.”

She caught his arm. He turned to her. The light spilling from the resort’s open doors washed him golden, picking out his crow’s-feet and smile lines and frown lines. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. He was fifty-two. He had been married twenty-five years. Someone who can’t have what he really wants .

“I’m not Linda,” she said.

“I know.” He took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I’m not trying to compare you two. It’s just that I have this whole set of reflexes that come from being Linda’s husband. They’re gonna come out now and again. I figure the best way to deal with that is to be up-front about it, and ask you what’s going on instead of just assuming I know.”

A laugh that was very close to a sob bubbled out of her chest.

“What?”

“That’s my entire third marital counseling session condensed to one sentence.”

He looked at her closely, a sliver of a smile on his face. He carefully rubbed one thumb along her cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay, love?”

She could feel Opperman out there, gliding through the press of bodies like a malignant presence just under the surface of the water.

“Just… overtired. Overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on women.”

She laughed.

He tugged her toward the door. “C’mon, tired girl. Let’s get you home to bed.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth. “Alone.”

SATURDAY, AUGUST 27

In her dream, Clare was flying. The radio crackled and spat with an endless flow of chatter, air-to-air, ground-to-air, reports from the AWACs flying miles above them.

Clare checked the airspeed, yawed the rooters another ten degrees so that they were looking at the ground through the windscreen. Drying fields. Irrigation pumps. And there, the narrow Nile green river that led to the town. She picked up speed. “Target coordinates in. Unlocking missiles.”

“Confirmed. Range five hundred,” her copilot said.

Clare tapped her mic. “Alpha Tango, this is Bravo Flight five two five, ranged three hundred meters from one-three Company Foxtrot. Do we have a confirm to go hot?”

Her helmet’s headset blared. “Bravo Flight five two five, you are confirmed to go hot.”

“Roger, Alpha Tango.” She flicked the switches. “Missiles on.”

The radio cracked again. “Bravo five two five, this is the one-three Foxtrot. Not to rush you or anything, but where the hell are you?”

“We’ll be on top of you in two minutes, one-three. Are you still under fire?”

“Hell, yes, we’re still under fire. We fell back to the house across the street. There ain’t no more place to go. We’ve got wounded. We need an extract, and we need it five minutes ago.”

“We have signal,” her copilot said, and she glanced at him and saw it was her SERE instructor, Master Sergeant Ashley “Hardball” Wright, his lanky frame taking up all the cockpit space and then some.

“Master Sergeant? I didn’t know you were flight-certified.”

“Pay attention, Fergusson. You might live longer.” The sun on the water flashed unbearably bright as they overflew the river. Then they were roaring over low buildings, dun and cement, and he said, “Target acquired,” and she said, “Fire,” and the Black Hawk’s frame shuddered as the AGM-114s launched out of their cradles, and they streaked away faster than the eye could follow and half the target building exploded into dust and fire and oily black smoke. They flew into the black roiling column, the sound of the explosion carrying over the rotors, through her helmet, and she rode up, up, up on the high hard thermal, rising out of the smoke as the remains of the building burned beneath them.

“One-three Foxtrot, I need an LZ,” she said into her mic. “Do you have enemy fire?”

“Negative, Bravo five two five. You smoked ’em. We’re establishing a perimeter now.”

She dropped the helo like an express elevator, leaving her stomach somewhere above the floating debris. The ambulatory of the one-three had cordoned off a dirty square flanked by burning rubble and mortar-pocked houses. She touched down and cut the engine. She looked around. There were bodies everywhere. Everywhere, circling her landing zone, heaped over the dirt and the cement, men, women, children, white shattered bones and black burned skin. “Oh my God,” she said.

Then they were standing outside. The stench was beyond bearing, shit and burned insulation and rotting meat. Hardball said, “The lawyer, testing Jesus, asked, ‘Who is my neighbor?’”

So many bodies. So many lives. So much death. The wounded of the one-three squad were lying on the broken concrete, body after bloody, blasted body, all in urban camo except for one. One was in khaki and brown. “We need extraction!” a sergeant yelled.

The helo was gone. Clare looked around, panicked.

“What does the Lord require of you,” Hardball asked, “but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?”

“Where’s the ship?” Clare cried. “Where’s the goddamn ship?” A pair of EMTs hoisted a gurney. The man in khaki and brown was on it, packed with blue emergency bandages that had bled through in ragged purple blotches. “Where are you going?” Clare screamed. “We’re extracting as soon as I find the ship! Bring him here!”

The EMTs passed her and she saw him in fragments: his sandy hair, the oxygen mask, one boot lolling off the stretcher. She saw his hand, tan, limp, still wearing his wedding ring. She lunged toward him and Hardball was in the way, soaking in blood, reeking of it, and he caught her and held her, saying, “This is my commandment to you; that you love one another as I have loved you.”

Then the EMTs threw Russ Van Alstyne’s dead body into the charnel house flames and she sat bolt upright, screaming and snot-faced in the darkness of her bedroom.

“Oh, God, help me!” Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might stroke out. She half fell, half crawled out of her sweat-tangled sheets and staggered to the bathroom. She braced her hands on the cistern and vomited into the toilet, spasming over and over again until there was nothing left. She sank weeping onto the tile floor.

She sat there for a long time, tears smearing across her cheeks, her whole body shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut against the flashes of shattered and burned flesh, afterimages imprinted on her retinas. She tried to pray, but the vision of Russ, bloody, broken, dead, wiped all the words from her mind, and she was left with nothing but the most elemental plea. Help me, God. God, help me.

I don’t think I’m fine at all.

She had left her clutch on the shelf over the towel rack, emptied of the lipstick and compact she had carried earlier this evening. Yesterday. She pushed against the edge of the tub and listed to her feet. Reached for the clutch. Pulled out the creased brochure. There would be somebody at the community center starting at eight o’clock when the gym opened. Nine at the latest.

She looked out the bathroom’s small window. Venus blazed large and bright among the fading stars. She could see the silhouettes of rooftops and chimneys and trees against the sky, but she couldn’t make out any colors yet. She smoothed the brochure against her aching stomach, over and over again, and then sat down on the cool tiles to wait out the coming of the light.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

Hadley Knox stretched her legs out on the grass and watched the other parents waiting for the Millers Kill Middle School cross-country team to reappear from walking the meet course.

There was a trio of mothers near her, women she had seen at the school but never met. They were chatting and laughing in canvas camp chairs with their pedicured feet propped up on coolers. They wore crop-legged chinos and drapey cotton sweaters, bits of gold dripping off their wrists and circling their necks. Hadley was in jeans and her police academy T-shirt, with nothing but a Goodwill windbreaker to keep the grass from staining her butt. She must have missed the memo that said they were supposed to dress like they were going to the damn country club.

She recognized a few faces here and there, from school concerts and open houses. There was one man she knew she had seen at St. Alban’s, and another she had ticketed for doing fifty in a thirty-five zone, but there wasn’t anybody she knew well enough to wave over and start shooting the breeze with. Two years she had been living in Millers Kill-two and a half-and she didn’t have a single friend.

Jesus, listen to your pity party. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Her life was exactly the way she wanted it. She had Hudson and Genny and Granddad. She had a job, and a house to run, and she even went to church every Sunday, although that was more for the kids’ benefit than her own. The occasional bout of loneliness was the fee for controlling her own life. It was a fair trade.

A stir of excitement brought her attention to where the woods opened up to clear land. She recognized the Minutemen blue-and-white on the ragged clump of middle schoolers emerging from the trail, spotted Hudson and his best friend Conner and Eric McCrea’s boy, and a grown-up in the midst of them, impossibly tall and redheaded and what the hell was Kevin Flynn doing with her kid’s cross-country team?

Hudson was half a length ahead of Flynn, who seemed to be hanging back, talking to the stragglers. Hadley propped a smile on her face as she approached the snapping tape dividing the runners from the spectators. “Hey, babe. How’s the course? Any cow patties you have to watch out for?”

Conner and Jacob McCrea cracked up. Hudson looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. “Oh, man, can you imagine,” Conner said. “Stepping in one and it sticking to your shoe?”

“Stepping in two!” Jake started clomping around, his sneakers encased in imaginary cow patties. Hadley thought about Eric, already planning for this kid’s future in college. Hard to believe these boys would ever be mature enough to leave home.

“Okay, guys.” Kevin’s voice carried over the boy’s snorts and moos. “Go see Coach. He’ll get you signed in. Remember what I said about the final downhill stretch.” He paused in front of Hadley while the team moved on toward the crowded starting line, Jake demonstrating the double-manure maneuver to everyone. “Hey, Hadley.”

“What are you doing here?”

He frowned. “Coach Bain needed an assistant. I’m helping him out.”

“You’re not a parent. Why on earth would you be hanging around a bunch of dopy middle school kids?”

“You don’t need to be a parent to volunteer.” His face stiffened. “Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn minute. Are you trying to imply something?”

“Yes. I want to know if you volunteered because my kid is on the team.”

“What?” He stared at her a moment, then snorted a half-laugh. He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Shit. Okay. I thought you were accusing me of being a pedophile.”

“Euww! No!”

“Well, euww, no, I didn’t sign up for this gig because Hudson is on the team. I didn’t know the roster until I got to the first practice. I volunteered because I used to run for Coach Bain, and because none of the parents stepped up to the plate.”

“I’m busy!”

“Then you ought to be grateful that somebody who has a little more time stepped in to take up the slack.”

“Is that what this is about? Me being grateful?”

“Oh, for God’s sake-” He blew out a breath. “Look, I gotta meet up with the team and see them off. Will you be here?”

“Of course. Are they going to-” He was already loping toward the throng of kids at the middle of the field, giving her a nice view of the arch of his thigh and the spring of his calf. Stop that . Most of the trouble in her life began with the fall of a guy’s hair over his eye or the edge of his narrow hip bones peeking out from the low-slung waist of his jeans. She’d start out thinking he’s hot and end up cosigning a loan for the loser.

The starting gun cracked, and an uneven line of boys surged toward the forest. She could see blue and white shorts and singlets, but she couldn’t make out Hudson as the runners quickly closed into a pack and disappeared into the trees. Then there was Flynn, walking back toward her, oblivious to the appreciative glances from a couple of well-groomed moms who must have been twice his age, for God’s sake. He held the tape up with his forearm and ducked under it. His hands were filled with two sweating water bottles. He gave her one.

“Thanks.” There. She could be gracious.

“Did you bring a chair?”

“I brought a windbreaker.” She gestured toward the crumpled nylon, weighted down with her purse. He collapsed onto the grass next to it in a tangle of long, pale limbs. As she sat-with a lot more care and a lot less athleticism-she caught a glimpse of the chino-and-gold-bangle crowd checking them out. That’s right, bitches, she wanted to say. You may have the goods, but I have the young stud.

Oh, God, what was wrong with her? They probably thought Hadley was his aunt or something. Big sister. She popped open the bottle’s flip-top and swallowed half the contents in one go.

“So, not to put too fine a point on it, do you want to tell me why you have a hair up your ass about me helping Coach Bain?”

She spluttered water and swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “Look. I’m sorry. I was surprised to see you, and I leaped to a not very nice conclusion.”

“That I did it because I knew Hudson was on the team?” He shook his head. “Hadley, I see you every day at the shop. It’s not like I have to manufacture reasons to bump into you.”

“I know that. It’s just…” She could feel her cheeks heating up.

“Just what? Just you can’t imagine me volunteering with no ulterior motive?”

“No! Of course not.” She drew her legs up again and stared intently at the spot on her knee where the denim had worn threadbare and white. “Look. Before you left on TDY, you were all up in my face with ‘I love you’ and ‘Let’s be together.’ Now you’re back. I guess I’m waiting for it to start again.”

“You told me to stop. Several times.”

She looked at him, then. “Yeah. But you didn’t.”

His eyes shifted away from hers. He examined the tips of his running shoes. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me.” He took a breath. “When I was in Syracuse, I worked a stalking case. This couple, they had dated for a while, then she broke it off, but he wouldn’t let go. He started hanging around the mall where she worked, and when security chased him off, he did drive-bys of her town house. Took pictures of her and e-mailed them to her. Left her flowers and stuffed animals everywhere-her gym, her hairdresser’s, her parents’ house. We pulled him in. She had a restraining order, and he violated. He kept saying-God, he was so delusional. He kept saying how much they were in love. To him, all this shit was romantic. In his mind, he was courting her. He didn’t see, he couldn’t see, that she was terrified. And the whole time we were talking to him”-he tipped his face up to the wide blue sky-“I kept thinking that was me.”

“No.” She touched his arm. “Flynn. Really. No. You never scared me. You just mistook one night for a relationship.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. I didn’t fool myself into thinking you felt what I felt. It’s that I didn’t listen to you. No means no and stop means stop and I didn’t hear you, I didn’t respect you when you said that and I’m sorry.” The last of his sentence came out in a husky rush.

She thought for a moment. “Are you saying this so I’ll drop my defenses and maybe sleep with you again?”

His whole body jerked. “God! No!” He looked at her, appalled. “Is that what you think of me? That I’d manipulate you like that?”

She took a deep breath. Reminded herself that there were a few good men out there. “No. I don’t.” She picked up her water bottle. “I think you’re a nice guy who actually learns from his experiences and uses them to become a better person. Which makes you a rarity, in my book.” She took a drink of water. “Apology accepted. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

He nodded. Picked up his water bottle and studied the label. “Thanks. It’s been kind of eating at me since I came home, but bringing it up at the station seemed…” He looked at her. “Thanks.”

She toasted him with her bottle. “Friends?”

He looked up from the label. His eyes were almost gray, she realized. Like mist and clouds over an autumn sky. “Yeah. Friends. That would be… that would be good.” He sounded so relieved, she felt a flash of annoyance. So much for her fatal allure.

He looked past her shoulder toward the woods. “Here they come.” He unfolded from the ground. “I have to be at the finish gate and get the times.” He sprinted toward the far end of the course. Hadley got to her feet and made her way to the edge of the track. She could see them now, one kid, then another, then another, popping out of the forest trail and pelting down the grassy slope toward the cinder track. The sight of the end must have juiced them, because she swore she could see them pick up speed. A kid in Millers Kill colors pulled even with and then ahead of the front-runner, a lanky boy from Argyle Central. The crowd was screaming, she was screaming, and she saw it was Jake McCrea and she screamed even louder.

Then Jake glanced behind him, looking for the kid in maroon and white, and that was all it took. His leading foot slipped in the grass, skidded, and he flipped, tumbled, head, shoulders, tailbone, through the air, landing with a thud Hadley could swear she heard from where she stood.

The crowd’s scream became a collective indrawn breath. The other runners kept on course, racing past Jake toward the finish, but Hadley lost sight of them as she waited, two seconds, four, six, for Jake to get up and run or walk to the edge of the field. He did neither.

“Shit.” She ducked beneath the tape.

“Lady,” someone yelled. “Hey, lady, you can’t go out there!”

She pulled her badge out of her back pocket and flashed it toward the voice without stopping. She wasn’t the only noncontestant on the field now-Flynn was running toward Jake, and a woman weighed down with clipboard, walkie-talkie, and stopwatches, followed by a graying man she recognized as the Millers Kill coach. She and Flynn reached the boy first.

“Jake. Hey, buddy, how are you doing?” Flynn knelt next to Jake and pressed his fingers to the side of the boy’s neck.

“My chest hurts.” Jake was pale and sweaty, but his pupils were normal, symmetrical, and he tracked Flynn’s finger from left to right and back again without a problem. “Maybe I just-” The boy curled up into a sitting position and gasped. Hadley took his hand and let him squeeze it until her knuckles cracked.

“Where does it hurt?” Flynn gently touched Jake’s rib cage, first one side, then the other. “Here?”

Jake shook his head then winced. “Higher.”

Hadley looked at Flynn. “Collarbone.”

Flynn laid four fingers over the boy’s collarbone. Jake yelped. “That’s it.” Flynn looked at Hadley. “I can already feel it swelling up.”

“I broke my collarbone at the first meet of the season? Oh, God, that’s so lame.”

“No way, dude.” Flynn smiled brilliantly at the boy. “You’re a wounded warrior. The chicks are going to be falling all over themselves to help you in the lunch line, carry your books. You wait and see.”

“Should I call an ambulance?” Coach Bain asked.

“Quicker if we take him in my vehicle,” Flynn said.

“The division regs state any injured child should be transported professionally unless released into the care of a parent or guardian,” the timekeeper said.

“We are professional.” With her free hand, Hadley flapped her badge at the woman. “Officer Flynn’s car is equipped with a light bar, siren, and emergency service radio. I’ll ride along.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, in that case…”

“I’m sorry, Coach.” Jake blinked fast and hard as Hadley and Flynn helped him to his feet. “I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have looked back. I knew it, and I did it anyway.”

“You did great out there,” Coach Bain assured him. “You ran a great race. You go with Kevin and Mrs. Knox-I’m sorry, with Officer Knox-and after this little ding heals up, we’ll see about you breaking some records for the indoor track season. Kevin, I’m going to grab his medical authorization out of my truck. I’ll meet you at your car with it.” Coach Bain strode off, the track official double-stepping to keep up with him.

“Here.” Flynn stripped off his T-shirt, pulled the neck over Jake’s head, and ran the body of it under and over Jake’s arm. He tied some sort of three-way knot with the hem and the sleeves and presto, Jake’s arm was snug against his chest in an all-cotton sling. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God,” Hadley said, “You really were an Eagle Scout.”

“Yeah.” Flynn looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

Then she saw the other tattoo. A second, smaller Celtic knot, this one circling his left nipple. “Jesus, Flynn.” Even with the injured boy standing between them, she felt a jolt low in her belly at the sight. It was… erotic. Not what she wanted to be feeling around Kevin Flynn. “If the chief sees that, you’ll be pulling the dog shift for the rest of your natural life.”

He grinned. “Good thing I’m not planning on stripping down for the chief, then, isn’t it?”

In Flynn’s car, away from the other kids, Jake let himself lean against Hadley and shut his eyes. While Flynn turned on his lights and began the drive back to Millers Kill, she tried to reach Jennifer McCrea. She left a detailed voice mail at Jennifer’s home and cell numbers, and when she had clicked off, she said, “I’m sure she’ll get the message soon, and your dad will be on his way. The dispatcher will tell him what happened.”

Jake bit his lip. “He’ll be mad.”

“No, honey, he won’t. It wasn’t your fault you broke your collarbone, and even if it was, he wouldn’t be mad at you.”

He blinked again. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, honey.” She glanced out the window. “We’ll be there in five minutes. I promise you, I’ll stay with you until your mom gets there, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kevin parked in the MKPD spot outside emergency and they both helped ease Jake out of the car. The boy looked pinched and scared and about nine years old. Hadley tried his mother’s numbers again while Kevin checked him in at the admission desk.

The ER nurse let Hadley wait outside the blue curtained area while he helped Jake change. Hadley stood at his bedside while the resident cheerfully agreed that yep, it sure looked like a broken collarbone to her. They ice-bagged the spot, now purple and swollen, and started an IV, which left Jake groggy.

“We need him for fifteen minutes in radiology,” the resident said. “Then the orthopedist will be in to talk with you.” She glanced at Jake’s chart. “You’re not the mom?”

“We’re trying to get hold of her.” Hadley squeezed Jake’s noninjured arm. “I’ll call your mom again while you’re getting X-rayed.” He nodded sleepily as they rolled him away.

Kevin Flynn was shivering in the waiting area, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, looking for all the world like an extra from Braveheart who had mistakenly swapped his kilt for a pair of baggy shorts. “Here you go, Celtic warrior.” She handed him his T-shirt. “The goose bumps don’t go too well with the tats.”

“They didn’t have AC in ancient Ireland.” He pulled the shirt over his head. “How’s he doing?”

“They’ve doped him up and taken him in for X-rays.” She glanced around the ER waiting room while she redialed Jennifer McCrea’s home and cell numbers. Tired institutional paint, wide, armless sixties-style couches and chairs, a goateed teen, a grandmotherly type in a cardigan, a weather-beaten man asleep and listing. Jennifer’s recorded voice invited her to leave a message. Hadley started to repeat her message when the ER doors whumphed open and Eric McCrea strode through. He spotted them.

“How is he?” He must have come straight out of his unit; he was still wearing his rig, radio at his shoulder, his service piece holstered at his hip.

“He’s fine,” Hadley said. “They’re pretty sure it’s just a broken collarbone. He’s in radiology now. They’ve given him Demerol for the pain.”

“What happened?” Eric said.

“He pulled the lead maybe two hundred meters from the finish,” Flynn said. “He was really flying. You would have been proud of him.”

“What happened ?”

“He couldn’t resist checking out where the closest runner was. He looked behind him…” Flynn shrugged. “That’s all it takes to put a foot wrong.”

“Oh, Christ. Of all the boneheaded moves.” Eric clenched his fists. “He knows better than that. He knows better!”

“It’s a broken collarbone,” Hadley reminded him. “Which is a lot better than a broken leg. Or a broken neck. He’ll be running around again by November. December at the latest.”

“By which time the season will be over.”

Hadley looked at Flynn. The puzzled uneasiness she saw on his face matched her own concern. She had spent a fair amount of time riding with him back when she was a newbie. That Eric had been smart, patient with her mistakes, with a sense of humor that eased him over the rough spots of the job. This Eric looked like he was going to pop a vein because his kid busted a bone. Playing in middle school, for God’s sake. “Where’s Jenny?” he demanded.

“I’ve been trying to reach her.” Hadley held up her phone. “I’ve been leaving her messages to keep her up to date. She’ll know everything as soon as she checks her cell.”

“Where in the hell is she? Why wasn’t she at the meet in the first place?”

“Eric.” Flynn moved in, close enough to drop his voice to a confidential hush. “I understand that you’re worried and scared for Jake, but you’re not going to help him or yourself by flying off the handle. Take a deep breath and let it go, man.”

Eric hooked his thumbs in his rig and spread his arms and chest. “Don’t try to talk me down, Kevin. I’ve been a cop twice as long as both of you put together. Don’t give me some bullshit line about how you understand me, because you don’t. You’re not a father.”

“Well, I’m a mother, and I can tell you that if you walk in there acting like Dirty Harry, you’re going to scare your son to death and probably get hospital security to escort your ass outside.”

“I’d like to see them try!”

“Luckily for them, there are two MKPD officers here to help them!”

Eric stepped toward her. “You think you can take me?”

“Cool it.” Kevin’s voice was sharp and unfamiliar. “Both of you. Eric, you’re in uniform. If you can’t pull it together and act like a professional, you’d better leave.”

“Or what?”

“Or I report you for duty code violation, and we’ll let the chief sort it out.” Eric glared up at Flynn, who glared right back. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“God.” Eric was the first to look away. “You’re such a fucking Boy Scout sometimes.” He glanced at Hadley. “Where is he?”

“Follow me.” At the nursing station, she asked, “Is Jake McCrea done with his X-rays?”

The nurse glanced at a large wall-mounted whiteboard. Names and numbers and treatments had been written and erased so many times the surface was a permanent gray smear. “Yup. He’s in bay four with the orthopedic surgeon.”

Through a gap in the limp blue curtains Hadley could see a glimpse of a white coat. “Jake?” she called out. “Your dad’s here, honey.”

She opened the curtain. The orthopedic surgeon, reassuringly middle-aged and gray-haired, was scratching notes on the back of a folder. He looked up. “Hi. Are you Jake’s mom?”

“No, she works with my dad-” Jake’s explanation was cut off by Eric’s loud voice.

“Oh, hell, no.” He jabbed a finger at the doctor. “You’re not touching my kid.”

“What?” The doctor and Hadley spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Do I know you?”

“Don’t play dumb, Stillman. I’m not letting a guy who abandons his own daughter to bang his girlfriend treat my son.”

The doctor’s face turned a mottled red.

“Dad!” Jake sounded horrified. He struggled to sit up.

“Eric! Jesus Christ!” Hadley was torn between dragging Eric away and going to Jake.

McCrea yanked the curtain open. “I want somebody competent in here to treat my kid,” he roared toward the nursing station.

“Dr. Stillman?” The nurse spoke to the orthopedic surgeon, but he kept his eyes on McCrea.

The doctor turned toward the nurse. “Call security!”

“Lie down, honey.” Hadley pressed the flat of her hand against the middle of Jake’s chest. The boy was crying now, his face screwed into a twist of misery and mortification. “You’ll hurt yourself. Lie down.”

“You can’t throw me out! I’m his father! I know my goddamn rights!”

Hadley opened her mouth to call for Kevin, but he was already there, long legs eating up the floor, holding his badge up for the gathering crowd of nurses and doctors and technicians to see. He wrapped one arm around McCrea’s shoulder, turning him, saying something low and fast into his ear. Eric elbowed Flynn away. “Goddammit, I’m not the one being unreasonable here! I’m trying to protect my son and no one fucking appreciates that!”

Two white-shirted rent-a-cops bulldozed through the gawkers. The doctor jerked his thumb toward Eric. “Get this maniac out of the hospital and see that he stays out!” One of the guards unstrapped a restraint from his belt.

Eric’s hand went to his SIG SAUER.45.

Hadley reacted without thinking. She screamed, “Gun!” and tackled Eric.

They went down in a sprawl, Eric and Hadley and Flynn. Eric twisted, bucked, then gave up. He began to curse, quietly, steadily, and his voice had more heartbreak than anger in it now.

She looked at Flynn. They were restraining a brother officer. A man who had mentored them both. “Now what?”

He drove McCrea back to the station in the cruiser. Hadley waited with a tearful Jake and the white-faced orthopedist, who wrote note after note after note, undoubtedly working up a full-blown complaint against Eric. When Jennifer McCrea arrived, she took the news of her husband’s outburst with her lips pressed tightly together. “I’m sorry,” she told Hadley. “I don’t know what’s going on inside his head anymore. It scares me.”

Weary and just wanting to go home, Hadley still had to pick up Flynn. She drove to the station, parked, and let herself sink into a funk of could-have-should-have-would-have. The door opening startled her. So much for her ever-alert law enforcement instincts. Flynn hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “You mind driving back to the field? I’m wiped.”

She shifted into gear and backed out of the parking lot. “What did you do?”

He closed his eyes. “I wrote up a report of the entire incident. I showed it to him. Then I saved it without logging it in.”

“What? Christ, Flynn, he was ready to draw on that security guard!”

Flynn dragged a hand through his hair. It was getting overdue for a cut. “There was this brochure for a veterans support group-I saw it in the chief’s office Thursday. I gave it to Eric and told him to call them, or the VA Hospital, or that department’s therapist in Saratoga, and set up an appointment and get some help. Today.”

She signaled and turned onto Route 117. “Did he do it?”

“He signed up for the veterans group at the community center.”

“You’re sure?”

“I sat right there while he called.” He leaned forward and cranked the blower up. Cold air roared through the car. He collapsed backward again. “God. I don’t know. He’s a good cop.”

“He was.”

“He wasn’t like this before he went to Iraq.”

“I know, Flynn-but he went for his gun. In the emergency room. What if he loses it again with a suspect? Or at home, with Jennifer and Jake?”

Flynn crossed his arms over his chest. “You and I will keep an eye on him.” He looked out the window. They were out of the town, entering the rolling hills and pastures of Cossayuharie. “He went off to war for us. That’s what people say, isn’t it? They’re doing it for us? Don’t we at least owe him a chance to make it right?”