I Shall Not Want (46 page)

“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.

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.”

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!”

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.”