In the Bleak Midwinter (17 page)

“This car,” she told him, “is a marvel of precision engineering. Zero to sixty in five point seven seconds. It handles like a dream, and it can drive a mountain road at sixty miles an hour without a shimmy across the yellow line.”

“Yeah? Well if I ever catch it doing that, it can also get impounded. C’mon, I’ll help you push it out.” He braced himself against the back fender. Clare leaned into the edge of the door, one hand on the wheel. “Okay, push,” Russ said. They heaved together. The MG slid over the low snowbank and rolled forward a foot.

“Thanks.” Clare looked at the tire marks in the snow, thrown into high relief by the streetlights. “That is an embarrassingly small amount of snow to get stuck in, isn’t it?”

“You need something heavy, with front-wheel-drive,” Russ said, opening the door to his cruiser. “Four-wheel-drive is better. Until you get that, load up the trunk with bags of kitty litter. It’ll give some weight to your rear and if you get stuck, you can always sprinkle some around for traction.”

“Great. I can see it now. I’ll get my car free just in time to run over some old lady’s cat who’s come to investigate.”

He grinned. “Why don’t you park that thing. Let me get the cruiser in, and I’ll stand you a cup of coffee.”

“Any of Harlene’s strudel left?”

“I might be able to rustle something up.” She nodded approvingly, slid into her car, and pulled it forward.
A strudel person
, he thought, shifting the cruiser into first.
Should have guessed that
.

In the briefing room, two of the sheep-and-geese mugs at hand and nothing left of the last slice of strudel except crumbs, he told her about delivering the warrant to Darrell McWhorter. “You should have seen him. So cool. The nicest guy about it you could imagine. He drove himself over to the hospital, with me following, thank God, because I sure didn’t want to have to make conversation with him in my car. Got his blood drawn and went home.”

“That doesn’t sound like a man who’s afraid the test will show something incriminating.”

“AB negative. Same as Katie’s.”

“And Cody’s father has to be Rh positive, doesn’t he?”

“You’ve got it. I’d love to be able to put the sonofabitch away for molesting his daughters, ’scuse my French, but there’s no evidence he abused Katie and Kristen still refuses to cooperate. I spoke to a caseworker at DHS and told her about the warrant and everything, but she said after the home study was completed, they could only delay giving Cody to his grandparents as long as the question of whether McWhorter had been abusing Katie remained open.”

“But if he’s not Cody’s father, there isn’t any other evidence of that.”

“Right. It’ll be a happy family reunion.” He licked his finger and picked up a few strudel crumbs.

“I found out why McWhorter is so eager to get his hands on Cody.” Russ’s eyebrows went up. Clare told him about the offer to the Burnses and the meeting scheduled for tomorrow.

“You really think you can convince this guy to allow the Burnses to adopt the baby?”

“I don’t know. I can get him to think twice about taking Cody. It’s worth a try.”

“Be careful, okay? I don’t like the idea of you drawing McWhorter’s attention. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“He sounds like a bully to me, plain and simple.” Clare propped her chin on her fist. “I’m not an easy person to bully. Besides, if the blood tests show nothing, he’ll be out of the running as a suspect in the murder, right?”

“Well… I’ll have to drop him back to third place. I haven’t forgotten the Burnses.”

Clare waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t seriously think they did it. You’re thinking it was Ethan.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Are you going to serve him the warrant to test his blood type tonight?” she asked, glancing out into the darkness.

“No. I have to pick up Linda and get her on the six-fifteen train. There’s a big fabric convention or something in New York, and she’s buying stock for her curtains.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’ll drive over to the Stoner’s farm tomorrow after school, bring him in then. That’ll give me enough time to question him and then decide whether to arrest him or not.”

“You’re not worried he might take off someplace?”

Russ shook his head. “His whole life’s right here. All his family and friends. I’ll bet the farthest he’s ever traveled has been New York City on the junior class trip. Where’s he gonna go?”

“Mr. McWhorter, Karen and Geoff can’t solve your problems for you. But they can help prevent further problems.” Clare took a deep breath and thought of the Wednesday Eucharist she would be celebrating a few hours away at noon. The prospect helped her keep her cool. The Burnses shifted on her small office sofa and glowered at her, obviously frustrated and out of temper with McWhorter’s continual sad narrative about his financial woes and his declarations of affection for his dear, departed Katie. So far, he had been skirting the outright offering of Cody in exchange for cash, but the implication was clear enough. Karen and Geoff had outlined the benefits they could give Cody; the excellent home, the education, the love and attention, even the puppy dog in the backyard. McWhorter countered with how ashamed the boy would be of his poor grandparents, how he would reject his own flesh and blood, living in a shabby apartment and eating beans and rice at the end of the month when the money ran low.

When Karen asked him if he wanted to bring up Cody in that shabby apartment, he went into a song-and-dance about poor but honest hearts that could have come straight out of
Little Nell
. Clare, who had held Kristen’s hand until she thought her bones would grind together while the girl stammered out her story of abuse, kept her peace by picturing herself snapping McWhorter’s kneecap with a well-placed kick. It wasn’t very Christian, and she wasn’t proud of herself, but there it was. They had tried the carrot. Now it was time for the stick.

“What further problems?” McWhorter said.

Clare rose from her admiral’s chair. “Are you aware of the average cost of rearing a child these days, Mr. McWhorter?” She retrieved several sheets of paper from her desktop. “I asked a parishioner to do some research for me on the Internet, and she found several articles giving parents the costs for the first year.” She handed McWhorter a paper. “Take a look. Diapers. Formula. The medical visits. That’s going to be a sizable chunk for a couple living on disability and a pension.”

She dropped another paper into his lap. “Here’s the monthly stipend you’ll be getting as foster parents. Falls a little short of the expenses, doesn’t it?”

Clare handed McWhorter more papers. “Unless your pension stretches quite a bit further, I imagine you or your wife will have to go back to work. Child care and baby-sitters are expensive.” She gave him another paper. “Here’s the average cost of infant care in the tri-county area.” She turned to the Burnses. “Mrs. DeWitt did a great job. She’s very thorough.” The couple were sitting up straight now, staring at her with twin expressions of unconcealed surprise. McWhorter shuffled through the papers, frowning.

“You’ll be taking on a big responsibility, Mr. McWhorter. A big, expensive, time-consuming responsibility. And we’ll make sure you’re doing your job.” She smiled blindingly. “We all feel connected to Cody here at Saint Alban’s. So we’ll be keeping an eye on him. Not just Geoff and Karen, but a whole lot of us. Dropping by to see how he’s doing. Talking to the neighbors. Checking him out when he’s at the grocery store and the bank and the pediatrician’s office.” She could hear her voice loosen into a light Virginia drawl. “Chief Van Alstyne is interested, too, and I’ll bet he’d be happy to arrange for police drive-bys every day. We’ll all be watching out for little Cody. And at the first hint of neglect or abuse one of us will have DHS on you like fleas on a hound.”

“Hey!” McWhorter crumpled the paper he was holding. “You saying I’m gonna beat this kid or starve him or something? Where do you get off saying that?”

“I’m not saying what you will or will not do, Mr. McWhorter. I’m telling you what we all are going to do. I’m telling you, realistically, that you are not going to make one dime off that baby. To the contrary, you can look forward to spending a lot more than you’re used to on the child. Or, you can authorize the Burnses to take custody of your grandson, and accept their more than generous offer to pay any debts Katie left behind.”

“You’re threatening me, aren’t you? I’m being threatened by a priest and a couple of rich lawyers. For trying to give my grandson a good life and a family he can be proud of.”

Clare drank some coffee. She balanced the mug casually in her hand, where McWhorter could see the flying rattlesnake and the motto
DEATH FROM THE SKY
! She looked at him levelly. “I never threaten, Mr. McWhorter.” His eyes flickered from the coffee cup to her face. “You have a chance to save yourself considerable trouble and to do the right thing for your grandson. Why don’t you take it?” The Burnses were still staring at her.
Yes
, she thought,
I am a very different priest from Father Hames. Get used to it
.

McWhorter looked at the papers on his lap. He shuffled them together in a messy pile and rolled them up. “I…” He looked over to the Burnses, frowning. “Maybe. I’ll take this home and show it to my wife. Talk it over with her. She had her heart set on having that baby come live with us, you understand.”

“She can visit with Cody as much as she wants,” Karen said. “I’ll drive her myself if need be.”

McWhorter rose, and they all rose with him. “Maybe.” He headed into the hallway, Clare and the Burnses close on his heels. “So,” he said, eyeing the carpet and the woodwork and the prints hanging from the walls as if he were casing the joint, “Cody would come to this church if he were your kid?”

“That’s right,” Karen said. “It’s a wonderful community. Not many children now, but we expect that to change over the next few years.”

McWhorter stopped in front of the parish family bulletin board, looking at the snapshots of congregants and their families. “Hey, here’s you.” He stabbed a finger at the picture neatly labeled “Geoff Burns and Karen Otis-Burns.”

“Many of those pictures were taken during the parish picnic last June,” Karen said, her voice unnaturally cheery and light. “Maybe you and Mrs. McWhorter could come along with Geoff and me next summer. We could all show off Cody together.”

McWhorter continued to study the wall of photographs. Clare felt the back of her neck prickle. Something about the way McWhorter was acting didn’t fit with a man who had been closed into a corner. “Why don’t we all—” she began.

McWhorter shifted to face them. “I don’t think so.”

“What?” Karen’s voice was polite, but shaky.

“I’ve thought about it, and I can’t give him up. He’s the only thing I have left of my Katie. He stays with me and my wife.”

“What sort of game are you playing, McWhorter?” Geoff Burns crowded the taller man against the wall. “We aren’t going to come back with an offer of money, so you can just forget it!”

McWhorter sidled past Geoff and retreated to the parish hall. “No. Sorry. I’m keeping him.”

“Wait!” Karen said “Maybe we can work something out! What if we got you a new car, so you could drive over to see Cody?”

She tried to follow after McWhorter, snapping to a halt when her husband jerked back on her upper arm. “Stop it, Karen,” he said. “Let him go.”

“Wait,” she said. “Wait!” McWhorter reached for the doors. “God damn you!” Karen’s voice thickened. “God damn you!” Clare put her arm around the other woman. She met Geoff ’s eyes and tried not to flinch away from the resigned pain she saw there. Together, they held Karen tightly as her body heaved with the effort to expel tears and venom. “I could kill you, you bastard!” she shouted after the vanished man. She laid her head against her husband, weeping with rage. “I could kill him,” she whispered. “I could kill him.”

A mid-week drive up to Cossayaharie usually relaxed Russ. Although Millers Kill policed the rural township, he seldom patrolled the mountain roads and tiny village himself. So his associations with the area were mostly good ones: visits to his sister’s farm, fishing up at the lake, hiking into the hills, or picnicking in the Muster Field, where militiamen had gathered during the French and Indian War and the Revolution after that. Returning from Cossayaharie you could drive through almost every war the men from this area had taken part in. There were the crumbling granite stones in the Muster Field, and then a big marble obelisk at the front of the old Cossayaharie cemetery, a memorial for two brothers who had drowned in the War of 1812. Before you reached Millers Kill, you passed by its cemetery, guarded by a droopy-mustached Union soldier holding a rifle and forever looking South to where his fallen brothers lay. Then over the bridge, stone cairns carrying brass plaques dedicating it to the sacred memory of those who fell in the Great War, and on into town, where a four-sided plinth listed the names of those who had served in each branch of the armed forces during World War Two. If you finished your journey at the post office, you could run your fingers over the bronze plaque memorializing men who had died on the Korean peninsula while he had been in diapers.

There was nothing marking his war. He didn’t know how he felt about that, and he didn’t want to think about it long enough to make up his mind one way or the other. There had been what his mother described as one almighty patriotic hot flash over Desert Storm, and since then, there had been talk on and off of putting up something for the rest of the veterans. He stayed away from it. He didn’t want to become one of those big-bellied guys down at the American Legion, droning on about their war adventures as if they had forgotten what it was really like. Probably file clerks and car-pool mechanics, anyway. The ones who knew what it was really like hardly ever talked about it, not in the Legion Hall bar and not in front of some committee to erect a monument.

He passed the obelisk to the brothers who had died in the waters of Lake Erie and took the next right turn. A dense stand of spruce and hemlock crowded in on either side of the road. As it wound its way into the hills, the evergreens petered out and the scenery opened up onto sprawling, uneven grazing fields bordered by bare-branched hardwoods. The road dipped and twisted, past sheltered hayfields, farmhouses, and an occasional trailer. For a mile or so, a stony creek ran alongside the road, black water barely visible under the heavy banks of snow. He drove past sleeping orchards of dwarf apple trees, modern feed silos, and century-old barns. At Jock Montgomery’s place, he saw two of the kids making a snowman in the front yard, and he slowed down, tooted, and waved.