In the Bleak Midwinter (19 page)

“I can’t clear anything up, you asshole! I was drinking alone in my car before I went to Videotek that night. I know I don’t have any damn alibi. Nobody saw me, I got no one who can say I didn’t do it. You don’t give two shits about who really killed her. You just want to arrest someone, and I’m the easy suspect. You think I’m just a punk anyway.”

“I think you’re a guy who’s in trouble and who needs someone to listen to him seriously. Look, Ethan, you know me. I don’t come off like Joe Friday.” Jesus, had this kid ever heard of Joe Friday? “I cut you a break last week, when I knew you’d been drinking. Because I’m not interested in an arrest record. I want to help people keep out of trouble. Let me help you now.”

“You can help me by getting the hell out of here and leaving me alone! I didn’t kill her!”

Russ spread his hands against the cow’s warm flank. Somewhere, there was a magic combination of words that would get the kid to lay down his gun and walk out with no one hurt. All he had to do was find them. “Ethan, I’m not gonna tell you what to do. I am going to give you the facts, so that you can make an informed decision. Fact. You picked up a shotgun and fired on a peace officer. That’s not going to go away. Fact. Right now, there are cops from the town and the sheriff ’s department and the state all converging on your farm. Some of them aren’t gonna be too particular if you leave this barn walking or feet-first. Fact. I will listen to anything you have to say about Katie and the night she died with an open mind, and I will pursue this investigation until I’m satisfied we have the real killer. Fact. You’ve got the power, right here and now, to stop this thing. You can put down your weapon, walk out of here, and make your parents the happiest people alive tonight. Or you can choose to shoot it out with a state SWAT team. What do you think the outcome of that will be?”

The cows lowed. Chains rattled. Somewhere, water dripped from a faucet.

“This is Officer Durkee of the Millers Kill Police,” a voice shouted from outside the barn.

“Mark! This is Russ! I’m okay!” Now. Now was the moment to take a chance. He eased his 9mm Glock out of its holster. The click of a round chambering sounded as loud as a gunshot in his ears. Keeping the weapon down by his side, he straightened to his full height, shoulders and head above the cow’s broad back. In the fading twilight, he could see Ethan’s outline at the back of the barn. “Stay where you are, Mark,” he shouted. “I think Ethan’s going to put down his gun and come out.” He ignored the feeling like ants crawling up his neck and through his hair. Ethan could blow his head off before he’d be able to get his piece up past the cow. “Aren’t you, Ethan?”

The boy was a space of stillness in the dark. Hay rustled. A cow kicked against her stall with a loud thump. “Yeah,” Ethan said.

Russ hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out in a whoosh. “Okay. Put the gun on the floor, then lace your fingers together and put your hands on top of your head. We want to make sure everyone can see you’re unarmed when you leave the barn.”

When Ethan walked past him, hands on head, Russ slipped from the stall and fell in behind him. He holstered his gun, but left it unfastened. Just in case.

Mark Durkee was beside the barn door. He leveled his gun at Ethan. “Ethan Stoner, you’re under arrest,” he said. His glance flickered to Russ. “Chief?”

“I’m fine, Mark. Take Ethan to the car while I go talk to his parents, please.” He let himself through the cattle gate while Mark read the boy his rights. A Millers Kill squad car flashed its red lights at the base of the driveway. Lyle and Ed were getting out. On the porch, Wayne and Mindy stood with their arms wrapped around each other, straining to see the barnyard in the twilight. Far down the road, he could hear another siren approaching. Russ felt flushed and shaky, his legs almost too heavy to carry him down the barn drive and across the dooryard. The bite of the December air, the dazzle of the house lights on the snow, the sound of people’s voices all flooded his senses. It was good to be alive. He forced a smile to his face and began the long, long climb up the porch steps.

Clare smiled when she saw that the driveway to the police station had been thoroughly plowed. She eased her car over the sidewalk and into a parking space. She really was going to need a vehicle that wouldn’t get stuck if someone threw a snowball under its tires. Problem was, the only way she could afford a new car was to sell the old one. The thought of which sent her into a blue funk. This MG was the closest she had ever gotten to flying on the ground. She thought of the dark, mid-sized anonymous American cars so many of her teachers at the seminary had driven. Clergymobiles. “Baby, climb inside my car,” she sang as she strolled up the sidewalk. A municipal employee leaving City Hall next door looked pointedly at her collar and frowned. Probably a Baptist. Clare winked at him before charging up the steps to the police station.

Inside, she shucked off her jacket. “Harlene?” she said, approaching the dispatch room. “Has the chief left yet? I was hoping to—” She shut up when she saw Harlene’s face. “What is it?”

“I really shouldn’t talk to civilians yet,” Harlene said, her crumpled expression at odds with her formal words.

“Harlene, is anyone hurt? Please…”

The dispatcher pushed her headset further back over her springy gray curls. “The chief went to bring Ethan Stoner in for his blood test and the boy pulled a shotgun on him.”

The rest of the room faded to a blur, and Harlene’s face came into exquisite focus. Clare could see every mole, every hair, the wrinkles around her lips as she pursed them together, the light on her lashes as she blinked quickly, over and over again.

“What happened?” Clare’s voice was even.

“I don’t know. They’re both in the barn. Mindy Stoner heard a gunshot, but I haven’t had any news since then.”

Clare nodded. She kept nodding as the possibilities flitted through her mind. “Harlene,” she said, “I’d be grateful if you’d let me stay. I’d like to find out if… if anything has happened.”

Harlene held her hand out toward an old office chair next to the filing cabinet. “You just sit right down. I’d be glad for the company, to tell the truth.” Clare tossed her coat under the chair and sat. The two women looked at each other.

“Who has—” Clare began.

“Do you—” Harlene said. They smiled weakly at one another. “Go on,” said Harlene.

“Who has been sent out to help? With the situation?”

“Three of our own officers. The sheriff ’s department is sending a car or two, and the state troopers are mustering their SWAT team.” She worried at the inside of her cheek. “And an ambulance.”

“Oh. Of course.” Clare looked at her hands. “What was it you were going to say?”

Harlene looked embarrassed. “I was going to ask if you believe praying can really help at a time like this.”

Clare folded her hands together and pressed them to her lips. She paused. “I believe that prayer focuses our human thoughts and energies, sends them to the people we’re praying for. I believe that helps, in ways we can’t yet understand.” Harlene looked surprised. She had probably expected a quick yes. Followed by an exhortation to the Almighty to keep everyone safe. “I believe that God hears our prayers, and cherishes them. I believe He answers by sending us His spirit, giving us strength, and peace, and insight. I don’t think He responds by turning away bullets and curing cancer. Though sometimes that does happen.”

Harlene frowned. “In other words, sometimes, the answer is no?”

“No. Sometimes the answer is ‘This is life, in all its variety. Make your way through it with grace, and never forget that I love you.’ ”

Harlene creaked back in her wheeled dispatcher’s chair. “You’re not one of those strict fundamentalist preachers, are you?”

Clare laughed. The phone rang. Harlene had it off the hook before the sound died away. “Millers Kill Police,” she said. There was a pause. Her face crinkled up into a huge smile. “Oh, it’s good to hear your voice, too.”

“Is it him?” Clare whispered. “Is he okay? Is the boy all right?”

Harlene nodded. “No, no, he’s absolutely right. You let them handle the arrest and the initial report. You go home!” Another pause. “Then go to your mother’s house. I don’t care. If you show up here, I’ll chase you off myself.” She laughed, then listened for awhile. “Are you really okay? You sound kinda funny.” Harlene glanced over at Clare again. “Hold on, there’s somebody who’s been waiting here to find out how you are. Do you feel like speaking to Reverend Fergusson?” She nodded to the phone and held it out to Clare.

“Hello,” she said, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Hi,” Russ said.

“Remember when you warned me Millers Kill wasn’t a sleepy little town? I believe you now.”

He laughed. “Good.”

“So, it sounds like you’re under strict orders not to come into the office.”

He sighed. “I guess I should go home. Linda’s out of town. And my mother… she doesn’t need to hear about this just yet. I’m still…” he drifted off.

“I know.”

“You know?” He sounded surprised.

“I know that you’re still…” She let her voice trail off, echoing his. “Meet me for a drink somewhere. We can talk.”

“Oh, God. I don’t think I can handle going out in public right now. Besides, I smell like cowshit and the scared-cold sweats.”

“Then tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll come to you.”

“Do you think… would my place be okay? I could shower and change, rustle up some burgers or something. Would that be, um, unpriestly or anything?”

She laughed softly. “I think what would be unpriestly would be to let a friend sit at home all alone with no one to talk to. Give me directions and tell me when to be there. Preferably after you no longer smell like cowshit, et cetera.”

He laughed. After she had his address, she handed the phone back to Harlene, who said into it, “You gonna confess your sins to Reverend Fergusson? Make sure she has a few hours.” She listened, snorted at something he said. “Okay. Yes, I will. Yes, I promise. Don’t you trust me? Wait, don’t answer that.” Harlene laughed. “Good. I hope you feel good about this, Chief. You just captured Katie’s killer.” There was a pause. Her smile faded. “Well…’Bye then. See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

“What did he say?” Clare asked.

“Said he didn’t know about that. He didn’t know what he had just done.”

When Russ opened the door to her knock, he looked… different. It was… it was… the jeans and a sweater. “You’re in civvies!” she said. “I was beginning to think of you like the sheriff of Mayberry, you know, always dressed in brown poly.”

He laughed. “You obviously didn’t watch enough. He had a plaid shirt and jeans he wore fishing.” He looked over her shoulder. “Where’s your car?”

She grimaced. “I didn’t want to risk getting stuck, so I left it parked at the base of the drive and walked up.”

He moved out of the way and let her enter the mudroom. “In that leather jacket and your oh-so-practical boots, too.” She looked down at her soggy, salt-stained suede half-boots. “Talk about unprepared for the weather. You’re worse than a little kid. I’m gonna get you a pair of mittens with a string attached, so at least your hands will stay warm.”

“I remembered the important stuff,” she said, holding up a six-pack of micro-brewed beer. She dropped it with a thud and bent to remove her boots. “And I could have worn my warm parka. Unfortunately, it actually belongs to the police, and I’m afraid if you see it, you’ll confiscate it.” She handed him her jacket.

“Stolen property.” He hung it up on one of the many hooks running along the wall.

“I prefer to think of it as permanently on loan.”

“Situational ethics.” He opened the door to the kitchen.

“Oh. A wood cooking-stove!” she said. “I always wanted one of those. They’re supposed to be great for baking bread.”

“I hate to disillusion you, but the only thing we make on that stove is hot water.” He unhooked a bottle of beer from the cardboard container and opened a paneled pine cabinet to get a couple of glasses.

“I thought your house was two hundred years old,” Clare said as Russ retrieved a liter bottle of soda from the fridge. “This kitchen looks kind of forties.” The floor was an old linoleum patterned with big flowers, the walls and floor-to-ceiling cupboards warm, glowing pine. The windows over the sink and in front of the table were hung with layer after layer of fruit and flower prints that reminded Clare of the old dish towels in her grandmother Avery’s kitchen. Matching fabric-covered balls hung from the evergreen ropes swagged along the cornice.

“You have a good eye,” Russ said, pouring their drinks. “The first modern kitchen was built here in the mid-forties. Before that, there was just the summer kitchen, which is on the other side of the mudroom, and a keeping room. I put in the brick wall and hearth for the wood stove, but other than that, we just peeled away the so-called improvements the last owners had made to get to this.” He handed her her beer. “You should have seen it. Vinyl flooring and all the woodwork painted in southwestern colors. Took me three months to get down to the pine.”

She sat at the round oak table and touched a finger to the tiny Christmas tree serving as a centerpiece. “I like it like this. It’s like a bright, warm quilt keeping out the cold.”

“Huh.” He sat opposite her. “I’ll pass that on to Linda. She does the decorating. I’m just the hired help.” He drank from a tall glass of soda. She propped her chin in her hand and studied him. He had a fit, outdoors look to him, still slightly tan from last summer, his dark brown hair picked out with gold and copper. She’d have to disagree with Lois, his nose was too big and his lips were too nonexistent to call him handsome. But he looked like a man who had lived comfortably within his skin for the past forty-odd years.

“So,” she said.

“So,” he agreed. His eyes were Fourth-of-July blue, high and bright with the snap of a flag in the wind. But behind them she could see something moving, like pages turning in a book no one was allowed to read.