Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (48 page)

In one motion, Flynn
heaved,
whipping the Maglites into the head of the driver nearest him as the snowmobiles blew past. He made contact, and the driver flipped backward off his seat like a circus tumbler landing full-body on the icy road. His snowmobile, riderless, slowed and veered to the right until it wedged its front runners under the bridge guardrail.

The last snowmobile was escaping over the ridge.
Someone else’s work.
She stood, reaching for her cuffs, only to stop at the sight of Flynn with his head thrown back and his arms spread wide above him, in victory.
“Freedom!”
he howled, in his best Braveheart impression.

Then the barn blew up.

19.

Russ guided Marie O’Day into the backseat of the Essex County cruiser so she wouldn’t bump her head. He slammed the door on her torrent of abuse and walked back to the black SUV. He glanced inside where Tom O’Day sat, one hand cuffed to the safety bar, the other wrapped in Clare’s turtleneck, a makeshift bandage. His wife was waiting for him outside Flynn’s Aztek. “I got it running so she can warm up,” she said.

He didn’t answer, just held his arms open. She stepped into his embrace and they rocked together. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’re okay.”

Something in that phrase—repentance? love? acceptance?—felled him. He slid to his knees before her and pressed his face into her rounded belly. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hands on his hair were a benediction.

“Hector DeJean died for that little girl.”

“I know.”

“He was scum. I wanted to shoot him. If I had gotten to him while we were at the lake, I would have.”

Her hands stroked his forehead, cupped the back of his skull.

“How can a guy like that turn around and sacrifice his life for his kid?”

“Oh, love. You know how.”

“Yeah.” He let the side of his head drop against her bulk, as if he could hear the future inside her. “I was wrong. I was angry at you, and at me, and I acted like a spoiled kid because I couldn’t have everything just the way I wanted it.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t give you any space for compromise.”

“The thing is, sometimes marriage isn’t about compromise. Sometimes it’s about giving everything and seeing where it takes you. I’m not … very good with that.” He looked up at her. “But I’m trying.”

She bent over him. “I love you.”

“I know.” He stood up, his knees creaking. He took her hands. “I figure if Hector DeJean can die for his child, I can live for mine.” Her eyes were wet, but she smiled at him. He kissed her. “I have to get back down there.”

“I know. I’ll be okay.”

“The rest of the team’s got the meth cookers bottled up in the barn—” He paused. There was an engine noise, rising, loud and getting louder, headed up the hill toward them. He had just enough time to push Clare against the Aztek, covering her with his body, before the snowmobile lofted into the air at the hill’s crest and slammed onto the road, blasting past them in a shower of ice crystals.

“What was that?”

Russ yanked the walkie-talkie from his pocket and switched it on. “Kevin? Knox? We just nearly got run over by a sled doing sixty. Something you want to tell me?”

“We got the other two, Chief! We got the other two!” Knox’s voice was garbled by some unidentifiable noise.

“Russ, look there. Over the trees.” Clare’s tone made him lift his gaze to where she was pointing. The sky above where the meth factory should be was glowing.

He triggered the walkie-talkie. “Knox, what’s going on down there?”

“The barn’s on fire, Chief! It just went up in a huge whoosh!” He could hear another voice, saying something. Then Kevin replaced Knox. “You didn’t manage to stop the third guy, did you, Chief?”

“Sorry, Kevin. We’ll have to wait until he reaches the highway.” Clare’s eyes grew huge. He dropped the walkie-talkie into his pocket. “What? Is it the baby?”

She shook her head. “Lieutenant Mongue. I left him in your truck. Blocking the access to South Shore Drive.”

He had a sudden image of that sled slamming into his pickup at sixty miles an hour. “Kevin’s car,” he said. They piled in, and he swung the Aztek in a circle, ignoring the skid as he turned, accelerating down the series of hills.

“Careful.” Clare looked into the backseat, where Mikayla lay drowsing, Oscar beneath her on the floor. “You don’t want to make matters worse by running into him yourself.”

He slowed, then slowed some more as he came around the bend to the final descent. The first thing he saw was his truck, intact and gleaming. The snowmobile was halfway up the trunk of an eastern pine that was now partly uprooted and listing away from the road. He could see the skid marks in his headlights. He slowed to a stop and climbed out of Kevin’s SUV.

Bob Mongue was leaning out of the passenger-side window, the Taurus Clare had taken away from Travis Roy trained on the sled’s driver, who was sprawled on the ground near the afflicted pine.

“Bob,” Russ said.

“Russ.”

Russ crossed to the driver. “Keep those hands up,” Bob warned. Russ tugged off his helmet. Travis Roy blinked up at him, his nose bloody, his eyes purpling.

Russ walked back to his truck. “I’ve got a pair of cuffs in the glove compartment, if you can reach it.” Bob handed them out. “Nice collar for a man with a broken leg.”

“I told you I could outpolice you with one hand tied behind my back.” He gestured toward Kevin’s SUV. “Everything okay with your wife?”

Russ found himself smiling. “Everything’s okay. Everything’s fine.”

THURSDAY, JANUARY 15

1.

“We’re not sure if the fire was caused by a stray bullet from one of the state police shooters, or if the place was rigged to blow in case of a raid.” Lyle perched on the edge of his seat. There was no way to be comfortable doing this, even if the Johnsons had given him hot chocolate and their best living room chair. “Because of the chemicals involved in cooking methamphetamine, the fire burned very hot. Everything was destroyed. The men who had been producing the meth said your daughter wasn’t there, but I’m afraid there’s no way to know for sure.”

Lewis Johnson nodded. “We have Mikayla legally now. That’s all that matters. We’re registering her with the tribe so her right to stay with us will be protected. When enough time passes, we’ll have Annie declared dead and get permanent guardianship.”

“How’s the little girl doing?”

“She’ll be in the hospital for a while. But the doctors are hopeful none of her liver function will be compromised.”

“Good. Good.” Lyle didn’t know what else to say. Johnson was looking very … Mohawk, if Lyle let himself use the stereotype in the privacy of his own head. Stoic. Not giving away an ounce of emotion, despite the fact that his daughter was almost certainly gone.

“You know, there is the possibility that she’s still hiding somewhere.”

Johnson shook his head. “Where would she go?” He looked toward the credenza at the side of the room. It was covered in family photographs. All the other adult Johnson children, happy, living their lives … and Annie. “It’s better this way. In New York, grandparents can’t sue for custody of grandchildren unless their child is dead. Annie could be so…” He paused, weighing his words. “Pleasing. Always headed for rehab, always just about to get clean, but never quite managing. The social workers would have given Mikayla back to her, you know. After she had finished her sentence.”

Lyle nodded. The man was probably right. He had seen too many kids kept in “intact” homes until it was too late. “Still, I wish she had come to you for help after our officers frightened her off.”

Johnson rose, and Lyle rose with him. He shrugged his parka back on and picked up his lid. He and Johnson shook hands. “If at any time you want to access the files, or know how the investigation is going, Mr. Johnson, please give us a call. Your daughter will remain a missing person until we find otherwise.”

“That fire…” Johnson had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he could see the meth lab burning. “You won’t find her body.” He focused on Lyle again. “And there comes a time when a parent has to let go of the child he cannot save, and take up the child he can.”

In his cruiser, Lyle cranked up the heat and let it blow a minute or two before pulling out and headed back to Millers Kill. They would keep Annie Johnson as an open case, but he didn’t have much hope. If she had just run to her father like she always had when she was in trouble—

When enough time passes, we’ll have Annie declared dead and get permanent guardianship.

The social workers would have given Mikayla back to her, you know.

There comes a time when a parent has to let go of the child he cannot save, and take up the child he can.

“No,” Lyle said emphatically. “No.” He stopped at a red light. Jesus, he had a chill like someone walked over his grave.

You won’t find her body.

“No,” he repeated. He shook himself, hard, then drove on.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 16

1.

“Well, Ms. Fergusson?”

Across the black oak table, Archdeacon Willard Aberforth looked at her piercingly. She glanced around at the faces of her vestry. Mrs. Marshall smiled encouragingly.

“I decline,” Clare said.

“Could you clarify?”

“I decline to quietly resign my cure. I have the confidence and the backing of this vestry, and I believe I have the confidence and support of my parishioners. Furthermore, I’m not going to burden my husband with the knowledge that I resigned a position I love and feel called to because we started our family before the wedding could take place. So.” She paused for a moment to make sure her voice was steady. “If the bishop wishes to convene a disciplinary board and bring up charges, he may.”

Father Aberforth’s eyes shone like dark stones. “Very well.”

“Very well, what?” Geoff Burns asked. “What’s the bishop going to do?”

The archdeacon looked down at the papers before him. “The bishop gave me my instructions in advance of this meeting. In the event that Ms. Fergusson failed to resign…” He paused, and she could see it coming before he got it out.
You old drama queen, you.
“The bishop is willing to let the matter drop.”

Afterward, over a cup of tea in her office, she had her chance to grill him. “Why did he back down?”

Aberforth tilted his head. “As you say, you did have the support of the vestry.”

She snorted.

“There was also the matter of the phone calls from members of your congregation.” Oscar roused himself from his makeshift bed beside the bookcase and walked to Aberforth’s side. He nudged the archdeacon’s hand, and Aberforth began scratching the top of the dog’s head. “While you were away on your adventuresome honeymoon, someone suggested a sort of phone-a-thon on your behalf. Which in and of itself might not sway the bishop, but many of the phone calls also mentioned the matter of money, as in, ceasing to give it if you were brought before a disciplinary board.”

“Wow.” She sipped her tea, trying to pretend it was coffee.

“In addition, I had a conversation with the bishop.” He picked up his cup again. Oscar, deprived of attention, whuffed at him.

“Oscar. Go lie down.” Clare turned back to Aberforth. “I can just imagine what that went like.”

“No,” he said, quellingly, “you cannot. I am not entirely in favor of the … direction this diocese has taken in the past years. I believe that having just one type of priest, thinking the same thoughts and behaving in the same fashion as everyone else, is detrimental to the church of God. We must have a variety of priests, that we may minster to a variety of people. You, Ms. Fergusson, are the spice of life in this diocese.”

She set her cup down and crossed to his chair. She bent over and kissed his head. “You great big old softy.” She knelt beside him. “How can I thank you for all you’ve done for me?”

“Perhaps you might consider naming the child after me.” His tone was desert dry.

She laughed. “Russ’s father’s name was Walter. Shall I see if he’ll go for Walter Willard?”

2.

Hadley should have been at the station already. Her shift had ended a half hour ago, but the three drivers involved in the accident near the Super Kmart kept changing their stories, and she had had to keep two tow trucks waiting while she tried to sort out who did what to whom. Now she was on her way back to Millers Kill. She hoped she’d be in time to catch Flynn. They weren’t going out tonight, but she was going to join him for his family’s Sunday dinner again. They were still trying to keep it on the down low at work, but she could feel herself lighting up every time he walked into the squad room. It was the damnedest thing. She was getting to be as starry-eyed as he was, as if all the crap in her life had never happened.

Her cell rang. She answered. “Officer Hadley Knox?” The woman on the other end of the line wasn’t any dispatcher she knew.

“This is Hadley Knox.”

“Officer, this is a courtesy call from the Albany Airport Police.”

Hadley signaled a turn and brought her cruiser to the side of the road. She turned on her light bar to steer other drivers clear. “Yes?”

“Your husband, Dylan Knox—”

“My ex-husband. We’ve been divorced three years.”

“Ah.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded relieved. “That explains it. Okay. I’m afraid your ex was arrested at the airport earlier this afternoon. A security check of his bag turned up nine ounces of methamphetamine.”

Hadley’s body went numb.

“Because it’s under the felony possession level, he’s going to be processed, bailed, and released, probably by next Monday. He’ll be free to leave for California pending his trial.”

“He lives in California.” She had no idea why she said that.

“He got…” The officer paused, as if choosing her words. “Very vocal about his arrest. He blamed you for the meth being in his bag. I’m guessing you don’t have the most amicable divorce?”