Out Of The Deep I Cry (14 page)

“Well…,” he said, his skepticism showing through.

“I know, I know. But even if the damage is only half what they’re predicting, it’s still going to be a costly job.” She sighed. “When I became a priest, I surely didn’t think I was going to be spending so much time worrying about leaking roofs and the price of oil and water heaters.”

He laughed a little. “Every job has its boring scut work. It’s one of the great universal truths.” He drank from his can.

“What are you drinking?”

“Decaffeinated Coke.”

“I’m having a Saranac Winter Ale. Ha ha ha.”

He laughed. “Do you normally taunt recovering alcoholics with your beer drinking?”

“Just you. You’re special.”

They were silent for a beat. Then he said, “What else did you do?”

“I had a couple counseling session on Friday. Spent the afternoon in Glens Falls Saturday with one of my parishioners who’s undergoing surgery. So I missed my stint at the historical society.”

Russ clucked disapproval.

“It’s okay. I told Roxanne I’d be in Monday. Then, we had a nice Eucharist this morning. Practically a full house. I think everyone wanted to see the roof before it fell in.”

“Huh.” There was a clunking sound over the line. “What are you doing now?”

She laughed. “Putting another log on the fire. I’ve got a good one going to take the edge off the chill. This old house is drafty, and if I have to buy another tankful of oil, I’ll be eating mac and cheese for the next month.”

“You should have your church get it weatherproofed.”

“I don’t want to draw the vestry’s attention to the fact that they own a desirable property that’s wasted with one single woman rattling around in it. I’m afraid they’d sell it out from under me and I’d have to move to one of Corlew’s awful town houses.”

“One of those places with the fake names where they spell
town
with two
n
s and an
e
? God, that would be a fate worse than death.” He shook his head. “What are you wearing?”

She laughed. “Is this that kind of phone call?”

“Oh, Christ, you know what I mean. Sometimes people who aren’t used to the climate take a while to remember to put on another layer instead of turning up the thermostat.”

She was still laughing. Then she coughed, and in a heavy southern accent dripping with honey, she said, “I’m wearing nothing except some very high heels and a teeny-weeny-”

“No, no, no, no.”

She laughed some more. “I’ll bet the women who do those phone calls are dressed pretty much like I am now. Turtleneck, my brother Brian’s old Virginia sweatshirt, and these really warm leggings my folks sent me for Christmas. Woolly socks and ratty old Passamaquoddy slippers.”

“Oh, baby,” he said.

She giggled. “It’s the slippers, isn’t it? They drive men wild.”

“Up here in the North Country, you have to learn to appreciate warmth.”

“And my thermostat is set to sixty-two.”

“Jeez, that is cold. Maybe this spring I’ll check out your windows and walls, see if there are some simple things we can do to tighten the house up.”

“As long as I don’t have to go to the vestry for maintenance money, that would be-” She fell silent.

“What?” he said.

“Someone’s pulling into my driveway.”

He glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost 8:30.

“Hang on a sec,” Clare said, and he heard the clunk of the phone being put down.

He rolled out of his chair and paced into the kitchen, the phone still pressed to his ear. Who the hell would be dropping by unannounced at this hour? He envisioned a gang of rowdy teens who liked to make noise and scare single women. Then he thought of a sexual predator, who knew she lived all alone. Some serial rapist, just out of Clinton, looking for easy pickings-

She came back on the line. “It’s Debba Clow.”

“Debba Clow? Does she have her kids with her? She’s not trying to skip out on her ex, is she?”

“No, she’s alone. She seems really upset. I have to go. Sorry…”

She hung up on him, leaving only a wistful echo behind. He held the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone. Debba Clow. At Clare’s. At 8:30 on a Sunday night.

He dialed the station house. Weeknights, all calls to the station were routed through to the Glens Falls dispatch, since Millers Kill didn’t have the need or the resources to keep a dispatcher on 24/7. But weekends, the busiest time of their week, they had live coverage with Harlene. Harlene had been working for the police department back when Russ was still spitting out sand during the first Gulf War, and he had no doubt she would still be there when he was retired to Arizona.

“Millers Kill Police Department.”

“Hey, Harlene.”

“What are you on the horn for? You’re supposed to be at home, getting some R and R.”

“Look, there hasn’t been any trouble at the free clinic, has there?”

She whistled in his ear. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that? I think this is a clear sign that you’re spending way too much time at work. No, there hasn’t been anything at the clinic, but just after you left this evening, Allan Rouse’s wife called in. He’s the clinic doctor.”

“I know who he is.”

“Bet you don’t know why she called, though.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath for you to tell me.”

“He’s gone missing.”

“What’s that mean, exactly? He’s a grown man, and it’s eight-thirty on a Sunday night. He’s probably hoisting a few at a sports bar, where they have something on worth watching.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But it turns out they were due to leave for Albany late this afternoon. They’re flying out to a medical conference in Phoenix, Arizona. Or at least they were. She had already missed the flight when she called.”

“Maybe he had some sort of medical emergency? Had to make a house call, or go to the hospital?”

“Mrs. Rouse said he’s always checked in with her before. She was calling their friends all this afternoon looking for him. She checked Washington County and Glens Falls Hospitals, thought he might be with a patient someplace. But no luck. She also called Laura Rayfield-that’s the clinic nurse practitioner.”

“I know who she is.”

“Well, she hadn’t seen him. Anyway, according to Mrs. Rouse, the doc seemed kind of restless and distracted, but she put it down to his upcoming trip. She says he left home around eleven o’clock this morning to run a few errands. He told her he was going to the clinic to deal with the mail and dictate notes for files. They were planning to be gone for a week. She reminded him he had to be home by four for them to make their flight in good season. Then he drove off. When he didn’t show up on time, she went over to the clinic, but he was gone. She hasn’t seen him since.”

He thought for a moment. “Did she check to see if he’d been admitted to one of the hospitals as a John Doe?”

“I dunno. Though you’d think someone would recognize him even if he had no ID. The man’s been practicing medicine in this town for thirty years.”

“What about a girlfriend?”

“I certainly haven’t heard anybody gossiping about one at my hairdresser’s. It wasn’t a question I wanted to put to his wife.”

“No, I suppose not.” He trailed across the kitchen floor slowly, letting his feet follow his thinking. “What did you tell Mrs. Rouse?”

“I told her that unless there’s evidence of something funny going on, we don’t declare adults officially missing for forty-eight hours. But it’s a slow night, so I asked Duane and Tim to stop into any bars that they pass and see if anyone’s seen the doc.”

“Good.”

“And since the man is sixty-five years old, I circulated a description of his car and plates to the staties. I told ’em it was a possible medical. For all we know, he had a heart attack behind the wheel while he was running those errands.”

“Good call.” There were a lot of stretches of road in and around Millers Kill where a car could roll off into the brush and not be noticed. “I don’t know why I bother to come in, Harlene. You go ahead and do my job for me.”

She snorted. “Someday this department will finally get a female officer, and then you’ll see it’s not that I’m so great, it’s that women are naturally smarter than men.”

“I never doubted that for a second. I have a hunch about the doctor, and I’m going to look into it. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.”

“Gotcha. I’ll call if one of the guys turns him up in the meantime.”

He said good-bye and rang off. He stood for a moment, the phone’s stubby antenna just touching his forehead, like a meditative finger. There wasn’t any reason to suspect that Debba Clow’s unexpected appearance at Clare’s house was connected to Allan Rouse’s equally unexpected disappearance. But he had been a cop, military and civilian, for a quarter century now, and he had learned to trust the little nudges that occasionally bubbled up from the bottom of his brain. He dialed Clare’s number again.

This time, her machine answered. He listened to her mechanically flattened voice advise him of her office and cell numbers, and when invited to leave a message, he said, “Clare, it’s Russ. Please pick up. I need to-”

“Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”

“Is Debba Clow still there?”

“Yes, and we’re having a pretty intense discussion, so I really can’t-”

“I’m not calling to chitchat, I promise. I’d like to speak to Debba.”

Clare’s voice was more guarded. “Why?”

“Just tell her I’d like to speak to her. Please.”

“Okay…”

He walked upstairs to his bedroom while he waited for someone to come back on the line. He pulled his jeans out of a pile of clothing on a chair. After a second’s thought, he also retrieved the uniform shirt he had worn earlier that day. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to put them on.

“She would rather not speak to you right now.” Clare was trying to sound neutral, professional, but he could hear the undercurrent of distress in her voice. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Can you tell me why she needed to talk to you so bad she couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

There was an exasperated burst of air. “You know I can’t disclose what I’m told in priestly confidence.”

“She’s not one of your congregation.”

“Russ, I’m not a priest just for card-carrying, pledging Episcopalians. I’m a priest for anybody who needs one. My obligations remain the same.”

He almost smiled. “I know.” The thought of telling her about Allan Rouse went through his mind. Followed by the thought of her telling Debba, and Debba splitting before he or anyone else had a chance to ask her what she knew about the doctor’s whereabouts. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation.”

“Russ.” Her voice was pitched halfway between exasperation and concern. Concern won out. “What’s going on? Can I help you?”

He did smile. “Not at the moment. But I’ll let you know. Later.”

“Okay.” She trailed off. “Later.”

He dropped the phone on his bed and shucked off his sweatshirt. He had been right. He was going to have to get dressed again after all.

When Russ rolled his pickup to a stop in front of Clare’s house, Debba Clow’s Toyota Camry was still parked in her drive. He got out, shrugging into his parka and tugging a wool cap over his head. The night sky was clear, with a full moon and winter-bright stars, and the temperature, which had risen a few degrees above freezing during the day’s sunshine, had plummeted back into the low teens.

There was barely enough space for him to edge between the cars and the icy snowbanks crowding the drive. The heavy, compacted snowbanks, tossed up over four months of shoveling the drive, were slipping forward, like glaciers riding on their own melting remains. Clare’s front door, sheltered by a graceful Dutch revival porch, was inaccessible to anyone without an industrial-strength snow-blower. He clumped up the back steps to her kitchen.

The door opened before he had the chance to knock.

“Chief Van Alstyne. What a surprise.” Clare stood blocking his way, one hand cocked on her hip. She didn’t look happy to see him.

“I’d like to speak to Debba Clow.”

“Have you got a warrant?”

“Do I need one? For Chrissakes, Clare, it’s colder than the monkey’s brass balls out here. Lemme in.”

He could see in her eyes the exact moment when she calculated it wasn’t worth it. “Come in, then,” she said with ill grace, stepping back from the door.

He kicked the ice off his boots and entered. He hadn’t been in this room in over a year. It was still a bland white box, straight from the lowest-grade aisle of kitchen fittings in HQ, but she had cluttered it into warmth with a braided rug and splashy seat cushions and a surprising number of glossy green houseplants that hadn’t been there a year ago.

He stuffed his hat into his pocket and hung his parka on her coatrack. “Where’s Debba?” he asked.

She pointed to the swinging doors that led to the living room. “What are you looking for, Russ? Why do you need to question her?”

“You’ve been talking with her for an hour or so. I figure you probably have a better idea than I do.”

She shook her head. “She hasn’t told me anything”-she paused to choose her words carefully-“of a criminal nature.”

“Good. I hope she doesn’t have anything of a criminal nature to tell me, either.” He pushed through the doors into the living room. This, at least, was exactly the same as it had been last winter. A few more books in the bookcases flanking the fireplace, a few more pillows on the overstuffed couch and chairs. A few more pictures standing on the wooden console and a few less bottles on the drinks table in front of the window. Where Debba Clow sat, perched on one of a pair of tiny caned chairs.

She looked at him warily, and nodded.

“Ms. Clow,” he said. “I have a few questions I need to ask you. Mind if we sit in front of the fireplace? I’m afraid I’d break one of those chairs if I tried to sit down on it.”