In the Bleak Midwinter (7 page)

She looked up at him. “The voice of experience?”

“The voice of experience,” he agreed. They both looked into the darkness at the creek’s edge. Impossible to tell, from here, what was rock and what was shadow and what was water. “There’s something else,” Russ said.

“What?”

“I think this murder may be connected to the baby you found.”

“What? Why on earth would you—”

“Because I have two unusual, unexplainable events happening back to back. A girl abandons a baby. Now a girl shows up dead. This isn’t New York City, where kids are stuffed into trash cans and Jane Does turn up twice a week. This is my town. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in my town.” She cocked an eye at him. He swung his arms wide in frustration. “I mean, of course it happens, obviously it has, but it sure as hell makes the back of my neck crawl. Which is my brain’s way of telling me to keep my eyes open.”

A halloo echoed further up the trail. A state trooper, bundled up to his ears and wearing his distinctive hat over a knit balaclava, heaved into view around the bend, lugging a chest. “Chief Van Alstyne?” he shouted.

“Yeah, here,” Russ called. “Kevin, go on and help him with that.” Flynn loped back up the trail and took one end of the box. When they reached the chief, they dropped the chest, stenciled
PROPERTY NYSP CRIME SCENE UNIT
and the trooper pulled off a glove to shake hands with Russ.

“Sergeant Hayes,” he said. “How can I help you, Chief?”

“We need photos, mostly, starting here, where the tire tracks terminate,” Russ led the technician toward the site of the disturbance, careful to put his feet into his old boot prints, “and here, where she fell, or they fought, and the slope…” he pointed down toward where the body lay hidden. Hayes nodded. “And then let’s get her in situ as quickly as we can, so these fellows can take her over to the morgue and our doctor can take a look at her.”

They backtracked to the others. Hayes opened the crime-scene chest and began digging out lights and camera parts. Russ pulled Clare to one side. “Why don’t you take my keys and go back to the car,” he said. “At least one of us can stay warm. I’d have Kevin drive you back, but I may need him here…”

Clare shook her head. “I’d rather stay. At least until you bring her up. I’ll walk with her back to the ambulance.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. I need to.”

He looked at her for a long moment. The reddish lights from the flares were like the last glorious minutes of a sunset falling across his face.

He smiled faintly. “I think I like the way you work, Reverend.” Clare shrugged one shoulder and looked away, embarrassed at getting extra credit for just doing the right thing. “Okay,” he said. “Stay back out of the way and don’t let your feet get numb.”

By the time Sergeant Hayes had photographed every mark in the snow, and the chief and Officer Flynn had gone over every branch and every tree for hairs and fibers, Clare had stomped a circle of snow into packed ice. No wonder cop shows never portrayed this part of the job. It was mind-alteringly dull to watch. If she hadn’t had to keep moving in order not to freeze, she might have fallen asleep. Hard to keep that edge of horror over the death of another human being when it was surrounded by so much tedious scutwork.

The paramedics, who had waited a lot more comfortably thanks to their arctic-weight snowsuits, skidded down the slope in a zigzag pattern, dragging the pallet behind them. Clare watched as they conferred with the police officers at the water’s edge.

“Okay,” someone said, “let’s do it.”

“One… two… three…” said another voice. There was a cracking sound. Someone grunted.

“Watch the water, watch the water!”

“Got ’er. Okay, okay, let go now.”

Russ detached himself from the group and hiked up the slope to Clare. The paramedics followed, with Hayes and Flynn behind them in case they slipped. The figure strapped onto the pallet looked like something out of a fairy tale, white skin and dark hair, a train of servants and attendants. The flares’ glow gave the scene an otherworldly cast.

When they reached the trail, the paramedics came close to tipping the pallet as they slipped carrying harnesses over their shoulders. “Be careful with her,” Russ snapped. Clare had been bracing herself for a disfigured death, but the body was more like a statue of a pretty, round-faced girl, asleep with her head fallen to one side. There were leaves frozen into her long hair. Clare looked at Russ. “May I touch her?” she asked.

He nodded. “Carefully. Don’t move her.” Clare made the sign of the cross on the girl’s marble forehead.

Hayes leaned over toward Russ. “Thought you said she wasn’t related to the decedent,” he whispered too loudly.

“She’s a priest,” Russ whispered back.

The state trooper looked at Clare, startled. “Ma’am?” he said. “I mean, Reverend.” Clare closed her eyes for a moment. She really, really didn’t want to do her song and dance about women priests at this point. “I’m a Christian, ma’am,” he continued, “and I’d be glad to join you in prayer.”

She looked up to meet Russ’s gaze straight on. She wasn’t going to ask permission. Their eyes locked for a moment before he nodded almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, Sergeant Hayes,” she said. She spread her arms wide across the girl’s body. “Let us pray,” she said. The men bowed their heads. “Depart, O soul, out of this world; in the name of the Creator who first made you; in the name of the Redeemer who ransomed you; in the name of the Sustainer who sanctifies you.” She laid her hand across the girl’s icy chest. “May your rest this day be in peace, and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.”

There was a ragged chorus of “Amens.” Russ reached past one of the EMTs and pulled a blanket free from the foot of the pallet.

“Chief?” Flynn said.

Russ shook out the blanket and laid it over the girl. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s all get out of here.” Clare let Hayes and Flynn take the lead up the trail, following behind the paramedics and their burden. Russ fell into step beside her. “Don’t believe in God, you know,” he said.

“Mmmm hmmm,” she said.

“Never saw any use for organized religion, either,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“But I do believe that everybody deserves a basic respect as a human being.”

“Even the dead.”

They trudged on silently. “Maybe especially the dead,” Russ said at last.

Clare nodded. “I like the way you pray,” she said. Russ shook his head, smiling faintly. “The last thing any of us can do for the dead is to show respect.”

“No. The last thing any of us can do for the dead is give them justice.”

She breathed in sharply and scrubbed the back of her glove against the sudden prickle of tears stinging her eyes. “Yes,” she said, after she knew her voice would be steady. “You’re right. We owe the dead justice.”

The Burnses’ Range Rover was already parked in the lot across the street by the time Clare arrived to unlock the parish hall for their nine o’clock meeting. Fumbling with the heavy chain of keys, she paused to check her watch. She knew she was running behind, but even so, she prided herself on always being prompt. Her old steel Seiko, hanging from its olive-twill strap, read 8:55. The Burnses must not have wanted to linger around the house this morning. Well, neither had she.

Last night, Clare had slept badly, dreaming of Grace for the first time in seven or eight months. When she dragged herself out of bed, still aching with weariness, she went for a long run along Route 51, the river running slow and wide to the old mills on her left, the mountains in front of her, shell-pink and cotton-candy blue in the first light. She ran herself hard in an attempt to outpace the images of angry teenagers, surly drunks, and most of all, the snow-white face of the dead girl. Later, in her shower, she let the hot water soak into her bones, trying to quiet her mind enough to hear the small, inward voice that would tell her which way to go. What to do. In her experience, hard knowledge, painful knowledge, was a gift. God’s way of pushing aside the distractions, the self-centeredness, leaving the right way clear, open, marked for travel.

The heavy chunk of the Range Rover doors brought her back to the moment. The Burnses headed across the parking lot toward the back of the church. In their casual coats, jeans, and sweaters, they looked perfectly turned out for a Saturday morning, like models on the cover of a J. Crew catalogue. Younger, and more vulnerable than they seemed in their weekday suits or Sunday clothes. Clare succeeded in unlocking the medieval-looking door and bumped it open with her hip.

“Good morning,” she said, juggling her thermos to shake hands.

The Burnses returned her greeting, looking at her attire curiously. “Reverend Clare,” Karen asked, “are you moonlighting with the police department?”

Clare plucked at the large brown parka she was wearing. “Oh. This. Chief Van Alstyne loaned this to me last night. I forgot to return it. I have to confess, it’s so much warmer than any of the coats I brought with me, I’m tempted to permanently forget to return it.”

Karen nodded. “You used to have to go into Saratoga to get anything to wear,” she said, “but in the past few years some wonderful stores have moved into Millers Kill. I’d be happy to take you shopping some time if you like.”

Clare looked at the lawyer’s beautifully-made felt coat, which appeared to have been hand-appliqued by Austrian nuns. Probably the same nuns who did the detailed knitting on her designer sweater. Clare had the feeling she couldn’t afford Karen’s wonderful little stores.

“Shall we go inside?” Geoff asked. “Ladies?” he tacked on a moment later. They scuffed their boots on the protective mats that reached six feet into the parish hall.

“I brought some breakfast pastries,” Karen said, holding up a neatly folded white bag. “There’s a place on Main Street called ‘In the Dough’ that does the most wonderful croissants. Not to mention real bagels.”

Clare thought of the donut shop Russ had insisted on taking her to last night. “You can’t be a cop if you don’t eat donuts,” he had said, ushering her into the Kreemie Kakes Diner. He had spun out an elaborate theory that people’s personalities could be revealed by the type of donuts they ate. That the choice of jelly donut versus French cruller could unveil the secrets of a person’s soul. She had laughed at the time, but watching Karen pull an exquisitely puffed mini-muffin out of the bag, she wondered if he might not be on to something after all. She opened her door and let the Burnses precede her into her office.

“Oh, my,” Karen said. They both stopped inside the doorway and looked around slowly. “It certainly is different from when Father Hames was here.”

“Yes,” Clare agreed, thinking of the unrelieved English-country style that had been her predecessor’s office. “It’s a nice space to display some of my collections.” Over the fireplace that dominated the wall opposite the door, she had hung an intricately carved fragment from a Spanish rood screen, brightly colored Southwestern santos, olivewood bas-reliefs from the Middle East, and Pacific Island fabric-printing blocks. A pair of leather chairs that had originally furnished the admiral’s wardroom of a World War Two destroyer—her most spectacular military surplus find ever—were pulled up cozily in front of the fireplace. The large Victorian desk against the far wall was a hand-me-down from Father Hames, but Clare had replaced his oil paintings of stags and spaniels with aeronautical sectional charts and aircraft design blueprints. They shared space on the wall opposite the fireplace with several gilt-framed flea-market mirrors. Clare was very pleased with that touch, since they reflected the light from the west-facing windows flanking the chimneypiece and made the whole room glow at sunset.

“Huh,” Geoff Burns said.

“How unique,” Karen added quickly.

To the left of the door, a slightly saggy love seat faced the leather chairs. It was a donation Clare suspected hadn’t moved at the church’s last rummage sale. “Please, sit down,” she said, hanging her borrowed parka on the coatrack behind the door. The Burnses followed suit.

Clare dropped her bag on her desk and unscrewed the top from her thermos. In front of the built-in bookcase, Geoff Burns was staring at an Apache helicopter clock her brother Brian had given her for a gag, and Karen was peering at a photo of Clare in T-shirt and camouflage pants. “Is this… you?” she asked.

Clare smoothly pushed a mug decorated with a flying rattlesnake and the logo:
DEATH FROM THE SKY
! out of sight and poured her coffee into a Virginia Seminary mug instead. “That was me,” she said. “Several years ago.” She sat in a leather chair. “Let’s talk about this idea Chief Van Alstyne had for getting Cody into your foster care.”

Geoff took the love seat. “Van Alstyne’s idea? When he called me, it sounded like your idea. He made it pretty clear that the only reason he was behind it was to make sure we would let him know if Cody’s mother contacted us.”

“We were both thinking along the same lines, then.”

Karen sat down in the other leather chair. “I talked to Chief Van Alstyne, too, and I’ll tell you what I told him. There’s nothing wrong, or illegal, about Geoff and me helping out Cody’s birth mother.”

“I’m not suggesting there is. You two want Cody. From all we know, the mother—the birth mother—wants you to have Cody. And we all want to ensure that Cody has a good home with loving parents and that the girl who gave birth to him gets whatever help she needs, whether it be medical, or legal, or counseling. It would be an untruth to say we can guarantee a win-win situation—”

“Of course not!” Geoff interrupted. “What’s to prevent a scatterbrained teenager who put him in a box in the first place from deciding, on a whim, that she wants him back? You’ve never dealt with DHS, Reverend Clare. You have no idea what those people are like. They act as if genetics were sacred destiny. If they get their hands on the birth mother, they’ll do everything in their power to persuade her to hang onto the baby. It doesn’t matter to them if she’s underaged, if she lives in a dump, if she’s going to be a welfare breeder all her life. In their book, providing the egg and sperm for a child is more important than providing him with a good life. I’m sick of it.”