All Mortal Flesh Read online

  “What?”

  “That . . . call me to talk thing? If I’ve seen her more’n a half dozen times at the IGA since we graduated, I’d be surprised.”

  Clare sighed. “You’re a widower now, Russ.”

  He winced.

  “You don’t know it, and you’re not ready for it, but you’ve just become a hot commodity to unmarried women of a certain age.”

  His look of horror would have made her laugh if it hadn’t been so heartbreaking.

  “Russ? And, um, Pastor? Mrs. Rayburn will see you now.” Barb Berube smiled sympathetically at them. Russ gave her a wide berth on his way through the door.

  Jean Ann Rayburn, the Millers Kill principal, was rising from her desk to greet them. She was an angular woman, whose flyaway gray hair and fuzzy cardigan fought against a stock-necked silk blouse and straight skirt.

  “Russ Van Alstyne,” she said.

  “Mrs. Rayburn.”

  She shook his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I met your wife a few times over the years since you came home. She was a lovely woman.”

  Russ nodded. He cleared his throat.

  “I’m Clare Fergusson.” Clare offered her hand, and the principal took it. “I’m the priest at St. Alban’s.”

  Jean Ann Rayburn’s eyes glinted with recognition, and Clare wondered what she had heard from the Millers Kill grapevine. But all the older woman said was, “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Fergusson.”

  The principal released Clare and clasped her hands in front of her, the sort of habitual gesture that she once must have used to draw the attention of a roomful of high schoolers. “I’m grateful you could come here instead of making the boy go to the police station. He was quite distraught when he spoke to me. He’s very concerned that his parents not find out.”

  “I can’t guarantee that,” Russ said. “Who is the boy?”

  “Quinn Tracey.”

  “Meg Tracey’s son?” Russ was genuinely surprised. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. We’ve hired him to plow out our drive a couple times this winter. I can’t think of why he’d be worried about his parents knowing he saw anything. His mother was the one who found—who called in the crime.”

  “Let me take you to him, and you can ask him yourself.” Mrs. Rayburn escorted them out of her office. “We’ll be in Mrs. Ovitt’s room,” she said to her secretary, who—Clare looked twice to make sure—had put on a fresh coat of lipstick while they were meeting the principal.

  “Suzanne Ovitt is one of our guidance counselors. Wonderful woman. She has a great rapport with teens.” Mrs. Rayburn knocked and opened a door almost hidden between two aging file cabinets. “Mrs. Ovitt? Russ”—she smiled apologetically at him—“I mean, Chief Van Alstyne is here. And Reverend Fergusson, from the Traceys’ church.”

  Ugh. Clare decided not to correct her. The guidance counselor’s office was bright and cheerful, decorated with the sort of inspirational posters often found in corporate cafeterias. A row of all-in-one desks lined one end of the room, and the other had been converted into a conversational grouping, with an oversized sofa and several squishy chairs. Like her furniture, the fifty-something Mrs. Ovitt had a look of sturdy service about her, as if she could wipe noses, serve snacks, correct misdeeds, and drill multiplication tables simultaneously, without raising her voice or losing her cool.

  She shook their hands and murmured hellos and condolences. Clare stepped to one side to get a better look at the boy huddled on the sofa.

  He looked like any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old she might have seen hanging out at All TechTronik or the Aviation Mall. Jeans that were easily two sizes too large, a long-sleeved tee emblazoned with a picture of rapper Fifty Cent, and a middling case of acne that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d be a handsome man once he grew into his nose and ears. But the expression on his face was singular—and disturbing. He was staring at Russ, and he was scared.

  “Quinn, this is Chief Van Alstyne,” Mrs. Ovitt said, indicating they should take the chairs. “And you know Reverend Fergusson.” Clare tensed, but the kid barely gave her a twitch as they sat down.

  “I know Quinn,” Russ said. He didn’t sound great, exactly, but he did sound warm and nonthreatening. “He’s been doing a good job plowing our drive this winter.” Russ perched on the edge of the chair so he could lean forward. “Quinn, why don’t you tell me what you saw?”

  The boy looked down to where he was linking and knotting his knuckles together. “It was a car,” he said.

  “In my driveway?”

  The boy nodded, still not looking at Russ.

  “When was this?”

  “Sunday afternoon.”

  Clare glanced at Russ. Was that when . . . ? He shrugged. “What kind of car was it, Quinn?”

  “A 1992 Honda Civic. New York State plates. 6779LF.”

  “I’m impressed. Most people don’t remember vehicles with that much precision.”

  For the first time, the boy looked up at Russ. “It’s kinda a habit. When I started the plowing job, Dad told me I’d better keep track of any cars in any of the driveways I did, in case somebody made a claim for damage later on. He pays half of my insurance, so he’s, like, always thinking about my liability.”

  Russ nodded. “What made you notice this car? Were you out there plowing?”

  Which would have been odd, Clare thought, since the last significant snow had been well over a week ago.

  “Naw, I do all my plowing right after it snows. Nobody wants to wait.”

  “So what were you doing out on Peekskill Road?”

  Quinn seemed very unhappy with this question. He twisted his hands and stayed silent.

  “Quinn?”

  The boy looked at Mrs. Ovitt, who had been sitting quietly, near but not too close. She nodded encouragingly. “I was hanging out with a friend.” Russ opened his mouth, but the boy cut him off. “I don’t want to get him involved, okay?” He dropped his head again. “My parents don’t want me hanging around with him.”

  The boy’s reluctance, his fear, all fell into place. Clare didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. A woman was dead, and in Quinn’s mind, his biggest worry was getting grounded.

  “Quinn, I can’t promise you this will never get out to your parents, but I can promise you I won’t bring it up unless absolutely necessary. I’m not here to enforce your mom and dad’s rules—although I will point out that when your folks ask you to stay away from someone, they usually have a pretty good reason for doing so.”

  Quinn somehow managed to roll his eyes without actually moving any part of his body.

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Are you gonna, you know, ask him questions?”

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  Quinn blew out a breath. “It’s Aaron. Aaron MacEntyre.”

  “Was he in your truck with you?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Did you notice anyone going in or out of the house when you saw the car?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can you remember what time it was?”

  Quinn frowned. He scrunched up his face. “Around four o’clock.”

  “So it was getting dark? How did you see the license plates? Was the outside light on?”

  “No. I mean, I guess it was before dark. But at the end of the afternoon. Maybe it was closer to three.”

  Russ sat silent for a moment. Then for another. He regarded Quinn alertly. He gave no signs of speaking again.

  Finally, the boy burst out, “Is that it? Is that all?”

  “I don’t know,” Russ said. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  Quinn’s eyes grew large. He bit his lip. He shook his head no.

  “You sure?”

  He nodded.

  Russ stood up. “Then we’re done. Thank you for coming forward and telling Mrs. Ovitt and Mrs. Rayburn what you saw. I know it was hard for you. I’m grateful.”

  The rest of the adults stood w
hen Russ did. Quinn scrambled to his feet. Standing, his jeans hung low enough around his hips to give everyone a clear view of his boxers. The principal pointed, and he yanked the waistband up. A temporary state of affairs, Clare guessed.

  “Quinn, you can join the tail end of your seventh-period class,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “I believe Mrs. Ovitt has a note for your teacher.” The guidance counselor nodded and retrieved a pale yellow slip from the top of her desk. The boy accepted it, stuffing it into one pocket and reexposing his underwear in the process. Before Mrs. Rayburn had another chance to bring him into compliance with the dress code, he mumbled a farewell and vanished through the door.

  “He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Ovitt commented. “Once he reconciles himself to the fact he’s a small-town white boy instead of an urban black gangbanger, he’ll be fine.”

  “Who’s Aaron MacEntyre?” Russ asked. “I recognize the last name, but there are several MacEntyre families in the area.”

  “His parents are Craig and Vicki MacEntyre,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “They have a farm in the valley, off Old Route 100.”

  “Has Aaron been in trouble?” Clare blurted the question out before she remembered she was going to keep a low profile. “I mean . . . why would the Traceys forbid their son to see him?”

  Mrs. Rayburn looked at Mrs. Ovitt. “As far as I know, Aaron’s never been involved in anything questionable. Have you heard anything, Suzanne?”

  The guidance counselor shook her head. “To the contrary. He’s a fairly popular boy. Very self-confident.”

  “He’s not a scholar, though,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “He’s bright, but he doesn’t see the use in applying himself. Perhaps the Traceys think that sets a bad example for Quinn.”

  “And Aaron is very gung ho about joining the military. His parents and I had to talk him out of dropping out to enlist when he turned eighteen last month.” Mrs. Ovitt and the principal looked at each other with a melancholy understanding. “Not a thing that would endear him to the Traceys.”

  “Yes, well . . . with this war on . . .” Mrs. Rayburn clasped her hands. “I can’t blame any of our parents for wanting to keep their children away from the recruiting office.” She looked up at Russ. “I hope at least some of this will be helpful, Chief Van Alstyne.”

  Clare read one of the posters. Beneath a perfectly lit swimmer powering through the butterfly stroke, it said: IF YOU HAVE A PURPOSE IN WHICH YOU CAN BELIEVE, THERE IS NO END TO THE AMOUNT OF THINGS YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH. Fortune-cookie philosophy. She wondered how it held up in the real world.

  Russ nodded. “I hope it will be, too.”

  FOURTEEN

  “What did you think of Quinn Tracey?”

  Clare looked away from the road for a moment. “Of him as a person? Or of what he said?”

  “Either. Both.”

  She returned her attention to driving. He watched her profile: Roman nose, sharp chin, her hair, by early afternoon, already falling out of its knot. His feelings, about her and for her, were too tangled and painful to contemplate, and he was pathetically grateful to have a mutual puzzle to fall back on. One of the first things that had caught him had been her mind, her easy questions and considered answers.

  “I think he was hiding something.”

  “More than hanging out with an unapproved friend, you mean?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Good. That’s what I thought, but I wasn’t sure if I could trust my instincts.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m thinking calling him at home would be good. Let him know that one of us will be coming around to talk with him in a day or two. I’m betting his fear of Mom and Dad finding out is greater than his fear of spilling the beans.”

  “Do you think he saw more than he admitted to?”

  Russ sighed. “No. Chances are the deep dark secret he’s hiding is a six-pack and a fake ID. It’s just . . . I want it to be more.” He touched his coat pocket, where he kept his small notebook. “I want this license plate and description to lead me straight to a car with the murder weapon in the trunk. That’s what I meant when I said I couldn’t trust my instincts.”

  She flicked on her turn signal and swung her car onto Route 57. “Do you have a working theory? About . . . the crime?”

  “Lyle thinks it was someone lashing out at me. That my wife was just an incidental target.”

  “Does that mean you might be in danger?”

  “I wish. Just let the son of a bitch get within fifty yards of me.”

  “Don’t joke about stuff like that.”

  “Who’s joking?” He saw her expression and relented. “It’s just a working theory, anyway. A way to organize the investigation. It could be complete bullshit, for all we know.”

  “Do you have any other possibilities?”

  “You know what I really regret?” It had nothing to do with her question, but he suddenly had to unburden himself. “All those times I discussed cases, like this, without ever really giving a crap. I mean, beyond wanting to catch the bad guys. All those times I talked about the victim as an object. Like a mechanic talks about a broken-down carburetor. For me, the murder or the overdose or the car accident was a piece of the workday. But for somebody else, it was the end of the world.”

  “Russ, you’ve just lost your wife. Most people in your circumstances are still popping Prozac and crying their way through a box of Kleenex.” She sounded faintly exasperated, which had the odd effect of cheering him. It was a dose of normal in a world gone strange.

  “I just could have been—”

  “You’re plenty sympathetic to families and victims. I’ve seen you in action. Don’t start making yourself feel inadequate for no reason.”

  He hiccupped a laugh. “Don’t beat yourself up, honey. That’s my job.” He smiled. “Linda used to say that to me.” Suddenly, a black bubble of grief rose up out of his chest and he let out a barking sob. Clare took one hand off the wheel and held it out to him. He clutched it in a bone-cracking grip, his chest heaving as he fought to regain some control.

  “Jesus,” he said, when he could speak again. “Jesus Christ. I’m losing my mind.”

  Clare shook her head. Her eyes were wet, too, although from sympathy or from the pain where he was grinding her knuckles together, he couldn’t tell. He released her hand.

  “You’re not losing your mind. Grief makes us all crazy at times. You read those Kübler-Ross theories and you think grief has all these recognizable levels, like going through school. Once you pass all the tests, you get to leave. But day to day, moment to moment, grief is more like . . .”

  “Losing your mind?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. She drove on in silence. He could feel when her car climbed the hill running into town from alongside the river. Could feel the tug of gravity as they swung around the circle and came to a stop. Must be a red light on Main Street. He opened his eyes and twisted in his seat to look through the rear window. Past the circular city park, where the abandoned pavilion lay half buried in drifts like a forgotten dream of summer, the square central tower of St. Alban’s rose to the ice-pale sky.

  “You don’t have to go out of your way,” he said. “I can walk from here.”

  She snorted. The light changed, and she accelerated down Main.

  “When are you going to give me the talk about God?” he asked.

  “Which one?”

  “You’re a priest. Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me? Telling me about heaven and all that?”

  “What do you think heaven is?”

  “I don’t believe in it.” Christ, he sounded like a five-year-old. A five-year-old who needed a nap.

  “Then don’t worry about it. Whatever happens, happens. It’s the one thing we’re all going to get to learn firsthand, eventually.”

  “But . . . doesn’t it all seem like such a waste?”

  She turned toward the police station, thumping over the depr
ession in the sidewalk into the lot. She put the car in park and turned toward him.

  “Nothing is a waste. You don’t have to believe in heaven to believe that.” She took his hand again. “All the good things Linda did in her life, all the people she touched, all the work she did, all that lives on. Her life had value. It had weight and meaning. She affected the world around her in ways you will never, ever even know about.”

  He sat with that for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I can believe in that.”

  She smiled, a little. “Humanist.” She leaned back and unlocked the doors. “I’ll assume you have a ride with one of the guys, but if you need me, give me a call.”

  He nodded. Opened the door.

  “Russ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m praying for you. Day and night.”

  He nodded again. “Thanks.” He watched her reverse, then pull into the light Tuesday afternoon traffic.

  When he turned toward the entrance, Lyle and Mark were waiting for him in their shirtsleeves. He raised his eyebrows. “Mighty cold to be hanging around outside without a coat on.”

  “Then let’s get inside,” Lyle snapped.

  Russ let the two of them precede him through the old bronze doors and up the marble steps. Decades ago, when the force had been twice the size it was now, there had been a sergeant’s desk here at the top of the stairs, with room for a half-dozen chairs against the wall. Now it was just a bare stretch of marble you had to cross on your way down the hall, furnished with nothing except two flagpoles, one for the American flag and the other bearing the state flag.

  Lyle stopped him with a hand to his chest right in front of the Great Seal of New York. Mark sidled farther down the hall and stopped, clearly listening for anyone who might come their way.

  “What is this?” Even the comparatively chilly entranceway was warm enough to make Russ’s glasses cloud over. He took them off. “You guys hitting me up for my lunch money?”

  “Russ.” Lyle sounded dead serious. “I’m not telling you this as your second in command. I’m telling you this as a friend. You’re going to wind up in a boatload of trouble if you’re seen driving around town with Clare Fergusson.”