Clare grimaced at the back of the eighteen-wheeler spraying dirty slush over her windshield. The plows had cleared the roads efficiently after Wednesday’s snowfall, but the same wet combination of grit and salt that gave her enough traction to navigate through the winding hills to Fort Henry had turned her car’s Scarlet Metallic Special Lacquer finish—for which she had paid an extra seven hundred dollars in the days when she was young and flush—into a drab sparrow color identical to every other car she passed. She wondered how Russ and his officers identified vehicles when they all looked as if they’d been spray-painted with industrial waste. He was right, she was going to have to get another car. She could almost hear the salt eating away at the undercarriage as she drove.
She glanced down at the directions Deborah McDonald had given her. “I’d be happy for you to come call, Reverend,” the foster mother had told her in their brief phone call. “All the ways I’ve had babies come into my care, and never by being dropped at a church doorstep. It’s a miracle you were there, that’s what I believe. A miracle.” Clare gripped her steering wheel more tightly and thumbed a spray of blue antifreeze across the windshield.
The McDonald’s vinyl-sided garrison looked as if it had been plucked from some densely populated suburb and capriciously planted on a windy hillside surrounded by pasturage. Two life-sized plastic snowmen flanking the front steps and a plyboard Santa-with-reindeer did nothing to ease the loneliness of the house, whose only neighbor was a dairy farm a half mile down the twisting road.
The woman who opened the door to Clare’s knock was like her home, a disconcerting blend of bare-bones plainness and cozy domesticity. Angular, unhandsome, with tightly permed hair and coffee colored eyes, wearing double-knit polyester pants and a sweatshirt decorated with puffy bears. Deborah McDonald smiled widely and took both Clare’s hands in her own.
“You must be the minister. I’m so glad to meet you. Come in, come in!” Her kitchen was country cute and immaculate. “I was saying to Keith, that’s my husband, that of all the babies I took in, there never was one left on the church steps. Thank goodness you were there. Take off your coat! Can I offer you some coffee? Hot cocoa? You have to tell me what to call you. Our minister goes by the name of Mr. Simms—we’re Church of Christ—but I know you folks may do differently. We have lady ministers, too, you know. Not here, of course, but other places. I seem to recall reading in the Evangel there was one in New Jersey.”
Clare accepted the proffered coffee. The geese marching around the rim reminded her of the mugs in Russ’s office. “Call me Clare. Please. I appreciate you seeing me, Mrs. McDonald.”
“Deborah, call me Deborah. All these years and ‘Mrs. McDonald’ still sounds like my mother-in-law, though she’s eighty and living up at the Infirmary now.” She tilted her head toward a bulletin board covered with photographs of infants, children, teens, and young adults. “After all the kids I’ve had, ‘Mom’ seems more natural than my own name.”
Clare examined the faces on the wall. “Looks like quite a crew. They must have kept you busy.”
Deborah laughed. “Still do. I make it my business to knit something for each one of my kids for Christmas. Hats, scarves, mittens, the like. I start in January. I’m down to just three more to go. Four, including Cody. I’m doing up a little hat for him.”
Clare, whose only craft accomplishment was refinishing furniture, almost missed the baby’s name while contemplating the scope of the foster mother’s gift-making project. Cody. Right. “Is the baby asleep?”
“Lord, yes, you’d be able to hear him if he wasn’t. He’s a noisy boy, that one, always wanting to talk with us.” Deborah gestured Clare through the archway leading from the kitchen into the living room. “He gets the cutest expression, too, like he’s thinking, ‘Who said that?’ whenever he makes a noise.” She led Clare through a carpeted hallway into a white-walled nursery with two cribs. The windows and cribs were swathed with petticoat fabric, and dancing bears lined the walls like gingerbread men.
Cody sprawled in the middle of one of the cribs, his round tummy pushing out his fuzzy blue sleeper. “Gosh. He’s gotten bigger. I can’t believe it’s only been ten days since I saw him last.” Clare found it hard to connect this fat and contented infant with the bundle she had unwrapped that night in the parish kitchen.
“He’s close to ten pounds. The doctor’s very pleased.”
Ten pounds must be good. “Shouldn’t he be sleeping on his stomach?”
“Oh, no. Only on the back, we know that these days. Cuts down on the instances of crib death.” Deborah smiled at Cody, the chocolate-sundae smile people get around babies. “We don’t want anything happening to this little guy.”
Clare reached inside the crib. “May I?”
“Touch him? Go ahead, until he’s hungry again nothing’s going to wake him up.”
Clare settled her whole hand over Cody’s head and blessed him with an inarticulate surge of tenderness and amazement that the most helpless of creatures were caught and held by God. As she signed the cross on his forehead, Deborah nudged her arm and pointed to a needlepoint hanging near the window. HE KEEPS HIS EYE ON THE SPARROW it read. “Yes,” Clare said. “Yes, he does.”
In the living room, Clare admired more pictures of graduations and proms and weddings before getting to the point. “I understand the Burnses have been visiting Cody. Did Ms. Dunkling from DSS tell you about the note that was left with Cody?”
“Ayuh, she did, she’s kept me up to date on everything about Cody. She’s wonderful that way.”
“Is it true Mr. Burns was here this past Wednesday? In the evening?”
“Ayuh, though that’s not the only time it’s happened. Mrs. Burns showed up at the pediatrician’s office when I took Cody in for his checkup. And they came ’round unsupervised a day or two after I got him, although to be fair, there hadn’t been much time to arrange a proper visitation and they did call first.”
“Did Mr. Burns call before he stopped by that night?”
Deborah crossed her legs, a slither of polyester. “No, he didn’t, and to tell you the truth, the whole visit made me nervous. I won’t say he was drunk, because he wasn’t, but he smelled like he had definitely dropped off at the Dew Drop Inn for a few after work.”
Clare shook her head. “After work?”
“I figured he must have left his office, gone out for a beer or two and then hit on the bright idea to visit Cody. He was still in his coat and tie. Really, I don’t like to complain. I understand how hard it is for the adoptive parents to wait, and I’m not against a few visits. I like the company, and it’s good for the kids and the parents. But, Lord!” She threw her hands in the air. “I can’t have folks showing up here at eight o’clock at night, sulking all over my living room and disturbing the baby’s routine.”
“Geoff Burns seemed sulky?”
“I guess angry would be a better word. He showed up without so much as a by-your-leave, invited himself in just as I was getting ready for Cody’s eight o’clock feeding, and acted mad at the whole world. Insisted on holding the baby, but he was so mad or tense or something that he got Cody all riled up and the poor thing wouldn’t settle down to his bottle for over half an hour.” She leaned forward. “Babies can sense people’s moods very well in their body language, you know.”
Clare took a drink of coffee. The newspaper headline she envisioned, PRIEST SUPPORTS MURDERER’S ATTEMPT TO ADOPT VICTIM’S CHILD had been joined by a subsidiary lead: DIOCESE SUED BY DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN SERVICES.
“Deborah,” she said, “how long does it take to get to the Old Schuylerville Road from here?”
“Hmmm? Are you heading that way next? Let’s see, if you take the turn at Power’s Corners and then use old Route eleven, you can reach it in about ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes.” Long enough to get to the spot where Darrell McWhorter’s body had been dumped, take off for Albany, and still be home in time to meet the Millers Kill police at his front door. Clare had a sudden urge to drive to the Burnses’ office right that minute. She wanted the truth from them, no matter how wrong it might prove her instincts.
She put her coffee on a needlepoint coaster. “Deborah, thank you so much for having me over to take a look at Cody and chat.” She stood. “I’d like to stop by and see him again sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Deborah McDonald stood, gathering the mugs in one hand. “Not at all. I’m glad of the company, like I said.”
The two women walked to the kitchen. “I promise you I’ll talk to the Burnses and mention your concerns.”
The foster mother unhooked Clare’s coat from the rack. “I appreciate the chance to let ’em know without having to go through DHS and making it all official. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice people. Just terrible eager for their baby by this point, I imagine. I’ve seen it before. Waiting on a baby when you can’t have one of your own makes folks a little crazy at times.”
Clare had to drive around the block three times before a parking space opened up. It looked as if the boutique owners at this end of Main Street would have a merry Christmas. She could have found a space more readily a few blocks away, but she still hadn’t gotten around to shopping for new boots and her low suede ones had already seen more than enough snow and salt.
The Burnses’ receptionist looked up, startled, when Clare came through the stairwell door.
“Ummm . . . can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Clare Fergusson. I need to see Mr. Burns right away. Or Mrs. Burns, if he’s unavailable.” Clare unzipped her coat and let it drop onto the asymmetrically striped sofa.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is in court all afternoon and Mrs. Burns is working out of her home today. I could make you an appointment for tomorrow . . . ?”
“Oh—” Clare bit down hard on what she had been about to say, “—gosh darn.” She snatched up her coat again. “No, thanks. I’ll try to get Mrs. Burns at home.”
On the drive to the Burnses’ house, Clare tried out what she might say. Karen, did your husband shoot Darrell McWhorter? Or how about, Karen, did your husband father a child and try to cover it up with this abandoned-at-the-church-doorstep scheme and when that fell through, did he start killing everyone else involved? “Oh, shoot me now,” Clare groaned.
The Burnses’ house was a brick Italianate revival with five-foot-high windows and a cupola that must have given them a view of the entire town. Wreaths decorated with wooden fruits hung from the deeply-paneled front doors, which had the look of an unused entrance. Down the long drive, by the separate garage at the corner of the house, Clare found the back door.
Karen Burns opened at the second ring. “Reverend Fergusson? What brings you out here?”
“Well, I—” Clare stamped her boots on the welcome mat.
“Please, come on in. No need to stand in the cold to talk.”
Clare pushed into the narrow hall lined with hanging coats, boots, shelves of hats and gloves. She left her coat, following Karen into the kitchen.
“Is this about the letter-writing campaign? I’ve gotten some wonderfully supportive notes and phone calls from people, you know. Mrs. Strathclyde told me she actually called our congressman’s office to complain. Can you believe it?” Karen led Clare through a high-ceilinged, granite-countered kitchen into a small den done up in burgundy and hunter green. Karen waved at the glass-fronted barrister’s bookcases and the computer centered on a wide mahogany desk. “My home office. I work here about seventy-five percent of the time, now. When we adopt Cody, I’ll be able to switch to a twenty-hour-a-week schedule without making any drastic changes.” She gestured toward a tapestry-covered love seat.
Clare sat. She took a steadying breath. “Karen, I didn’t come to discuss the letters.”
Karen sank gracefully into a green leather chair. “You didn’t.”
“I know that the police have been asking you about the night Darrell McWhorter was killed. I know you both claim to have come straight home from work.”
“Claim?”
Clare leaned forward, trying to meet the other woman’s eyes. Karen tilted her head, examining her hands. Her fingernail polish matched the study’s rug. “I know Geoff wasn’t at home at eight o’clock that night. He was at Cody’s foster mother’s house. Wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d come straight from work, and smelling as if he’d had a drink or two.”
The lawyer looked straight at Clare, her beautiful face calm. “What are you suggesting?”
“It looks bad, that’s what I’m suggesting! Karen, you two have got to tell the police the truth. What happened that night?”
Karen looked toward the bookcase. “Nothing.” She compressed her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know.”
Clare slid to the end of the love seat until their knees almost touched. “Tell me what you do know.”
The other woman continued staring at the bookcase. Clare touched her arm. “Please, Karen. I want to help you. And Geoff. But you have to be honest with me.”
There was a pause. Slowly, Karen turned her head to face the priest. “We had a horrible fight that afternoon in the office. We had been arguing about what approach to take with McWhorter all day long and we got . . . it just . . . anyway, I told him what he could do, and took off. I was so angry with him I wanted to . . .” She blew out a breath. “I did a little shopping, I called my mother, I fixed some stir fry for dinner—you know, working the mad off.” She laced her fingers together. “Dinnertime came and went, with no Geoff, and no phone call. I started to get worried. I mean, really worried; the weather was bad and he was driving the little Honda Civic. Finally, finally he showed up around ten or so.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know whether to kill him or kiss him. Turns out he’d been out at the Dew Drop Inn most of the night. I don’t know how he managed to get himself home, he was in no condition to drive. I was horrified! He could have killed himself. Not to mention the damage to his reputation if he had been picked up. The last thing we need is a morals censure from the Bar Association or a D.U.I. conviction on his record.”
Clare pressed her forefingers against her mouth to refrain from mentioning that Geoff could just as well have killed other people out on the roads that night. “Does this sort of thing happen often?” she asked, her voice neutral.
“God, no. Geoff’s idea of a blowout indulgence is a bottle of Nouveaux Beaujolais the week it hits the stores. So you can imagine how I felt when those two officers showed up at the door asking where we had been that evening! All I could think of was Geoff being hauled in for questioning. So I told them we’d been home all night, having a few drinks and watching TV.” She sagged back into her chair. “Geoff just went along with my story.” Her gaze went to the ceiling, as if looking for the Fates lurking there. “Yesterday, when we learned that McWhorter had been killed, it was too damn late to recant. There wasn’t anyone except a few anonymous bar patrons to say he’d been at the Dew Drop instead of . . .”
“Instead of taking Darrell McWhorter on his last drive to Albany?”
“Yes. We had already lied to the police. As you said, it looks bad.”
Clare tilted her head back, closing her eyes. Did she believe Karen Burns? Yes? The question was, did she believe Geoff Burns told the truth to his wife? “You’ve got to tell this to the police. You and Geoff.”
“No!”
“Do you believe your husband’s story about what happened Wednesday night?”
“Yes, of course. He would never lie to me.”
“Then tell Chief Van Alstyne. Geoff’s absence that night is going to come out sooner or later. If you wait until the police find out on their own, the two of you are going to look guilty as sin. Go to Van Alstyne’s office, tell him what you’ve just told me, admit that you were both royal idiots to lie about it, and offer to enroll Geoff in one of those driver education courses. Voluntarily.”
“What? There’s no way they can prove drunk driving after the fact—”
“We’re not talking about legalities, Karen, we’re talking about admitting you did something wrong and setting it right. Confession and repentance.” She braced her elbows on her knees. “Because on a moral and emotional level, you aren’t going to be able to continue on with this lie weighing you down. And because on a practical level, if you don’t cop to the drinking and driving and lying, your husband’s going to look like a murderer when the police do find out.”
Karen pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, half-shielding her face from Clare’s direct stare. “There’s a good chance they won’t find out,” she said, trying the idea on for size.
Clare exploded out of the love seat. “There’s no chance Chief Van Alstyne won’t find out, Karen, because if you don’t tell him, I will!”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can’t tell him anything of this conversation we’re having right now, no. I can certainly tell him Ms. Dunkling of the Department of Human Services called me to complain that your husband was at Cody’s foster mother’s house Wednesday night. And I can tell him Deborah McDonald confirmed Geoff was upset and smelled like he’d been drinking.”
Clare collapsed back into the love seat. “I’ll do everything I can to help you talk to the police. I’ll do everything I can to help you become Cody’s parents. But I won’t compromise the truth for you. I won’t help you stand in the way of finding Katie McWhorter’s killer. We owe her that. We all owe her that.”
“You’re lucky he’s in. Five minutes more and you would have missed him.” Harlene punched the intercom button on her heavy, licorice-colored telephone. “Chief? Reverend Clare’s here to see you. And Karen Burns.”
The door to his office banged open and the chief of police strode out. His gaze flicked between Clare and Karen, back to Clare, finally settling on Mrs. Burns. “What can I do for you ladies?”
Clare tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the effortless chic of the woman standing beside her. She looked like a badly tailored crow next to Karen’s drapey wool separates and hundred-dollar haircut. Which was ridiculous. Appearance was not what was important here. She tugged her bulky, faded sweater down, revealing more of her clerical collar.
“Mrs. Burns?” Russ said. “Reverend Fergusson?”
Karen looked uneasily at Clare. “I . . . uh . . . was going to wait for my husband, but he’s being held over in a deposition . . .”
Russ tilted his head a little to the side. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come into the interview room with me. We can be more private there.”
Karen nodded. “Clare, will you stay with me?”
“Of course.”
Russ looked at her hard while pulling out a chair for Karen, asking what was going on as clearly as if he’d said it. Clare raised her eyebrows, radiating encouragement. He rolled his eyes at her before crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Karen. Clare seated herself.
“Mind if I tape this? I hate to have misunderstandings later on because we’re remembering different things.” He rested his hand easily on a cheap portable tape recorder.
Karen frowned. “As long as you make it clear I’m speaking without an attorney.”
“Oh? Do you need one?”
Karen flushed. “As you say, I’d just hate to have misunderstandings later on.”
He nodded, turning on the tape machine. “This is Chief Van Alstyne, interviewing Karen Burns.” He glanced at Clare. “Accompanied by her priest, Reverend Clare Fergusson. Ms. Burns is unrepresented by legal counsel.” He looked at Karen. She nodded. “The date is Friday, December tenth, and the time is . . .” he glanced at his watch, “six P.M.”
Karen took a deep breath and began. Clare listened to her voice, calm and orderly. Her recounting of the events of Wednesday night was organized, yet compelling. Clare propped her chin in her hand, struck by Karen’s poise. She must make a dynamic advocate in court. Russ, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. He sat with one hand resting on the tape recorder and the other splayed across a pad of paper. Clare supposed his expression could qualify as neutral, but she could see something underneath. Disapproval? Skepticism? She bit her lower lip. It was important that he treat Karen right. How else could he encourage this kind of honesty?
When she concluded her story, Karen folded her hands, as if waiting for comment. Russ chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. He tapped the tape machine a few times. “Your husband was driving a Honda Civic that night?”
“That’s correct. He uses it instead of his Saab when the roads are salty.”
“Has he driven it anywhere since that night?”
“Yes . . . he’s got it today. He likes me to keep the Land Rover, in case I need the four-wheel-drive. Why?”
“Was he drinking at the Dew Drop Inn before he went to Mrs. McDonald’s?”
“No, that’s in the opposite direction from our office and her house. Um . . . he didn’t actually say, but I assumed he’d gone to the Sign of the Musket after work. That’s where we usually go for Happy Hour.”
“Mrs. Burns, when you spoke to Officer Entwhistle Wednesday night, you said you own a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson, registered to yourself, and that you keep it in your Land Rover for times when you’re on the road by yourself.”
“That’s . . . correct. I have clients spread out between Albany and Plattsburgh, and a woman traveling alone can be vulnerable. What relevance does this have, Chief?”
“Is that gun still in your Land Rover?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
Russ nodded. He popped the tape from the machine and rose from the table. “Will you wait here for a moment? I’ll be right back.” He closed the door on his way out.
Karen jerked around in her seat. “Clare, I don’t like this. I do not like this at all.”
Clare rested her hand on the other woman’s forearm. “Karen, we knew he’d be suspicious. After all, you did lie before. I’m sure Chief Van Alstyne wants to check with someone at the, what was it? Sign of the Musket? And at the Dew Drop Inn.”
“You’re right.” Karen sighed. “He’s going to want to talk to Geoff, too. Oh, God, I should have just waited for him to get back from that damn deposition. We could have done this tomorrow.”
By which time, Geoff could have argued her out of talking to the police. Clare patted Karen’s arm and tried not to doubt Geoff Burns when she hadn’t even had the chance to talk with him.
The women sat in silence as the minutes crawled by. Clare got up and checked the coffeemaker, but it was cold and dry. The plate beside it was empty. No homemade strudel today.
“What on earth is taking him so long?” Karen demanded. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to find a phone. I want to call the office and see if Geoff’s there yet.”
“Maybe you should wait until you hear what Chief Van Alstyne has to—”
The door opened. Russ and Officer Durkee walked in. The young man smiled discreetly at Clare, who waggled her fingers at him. He’d been good company at the hospital the night she’d found Cody.
Russ cleared his throat. Officer Durkee fell in, his face serious. Russ held up a curling sheet of fax paper. “Karen Burns,” he began formally. “I have here a copy of a warrant executed by Judge Ryswick granting us permission to search your cars and to confiscate any firearms in your or your husband’s possession for testing. We are also warranted to search your house for any materials possibly related to the deaths of Katie McWhorter and Darrell McWhorter.” He folded the piece of paper carefully, creasing it with finger and thumb pressed tightly together. “Judge Ryswick thought our new information was sufficient to issue a separate warrant for your husband’s arrest.”
Karen’s posture went rigid, and her arm, still holding the back of the chair, trembled slightly. She made no other sign or sound.
“However, I won’t execute the arrest if Geoff presents himself to the station for questioning within the next two hours. I’ve sent someone to your office to let him know. If he comes home first, of course, we’ll have someone there,” Russ said. “Officer Durkee will accompany you to your vehicle. If you’ll hand over your keys?”
“I want to call my lawyer. Now.”
“There’s a phone at the main desk. Mark, will you escort Mrs. Burns to the phone?”
Karen shot Clare a venomous glance. “Confession and repentance?” Her voice hissed like caustic lye. She turned and swept out of the interview room, Officer Durkee close on her heels.
Clare faced Russ. “This is absolutely outrageous!”
“Stay out of it? I’m the one who persuaded her to come in her and tell you the truth! How you can twist that around in order to search her car and her house. . . . Are you going to arrest Geoff Burns?”
“Depends on whether he shows up or not. What he says in the interview. I may very well hold him overnight while we test the gun.”
Clare clenched her teeth to keep her voice from rising. “I brought Karen Burns in here. I persuaded her to come clean with you. I assured her you would listen to her. I thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. You just jumped in feet first without looking where you were going or considering the consequences. I’m a cop, Clare! What the hell did you expect me to do when a woman I suspect is an accessory to two murders walks in and tells me her husband was drunk and unaccounted for during the time Darrell McWhorter was killed? Shake her hand and give her a good citizenship badge? Get real!”
Clare pressed her hands flat against the table to keep them from shaking. “I was trying to help—”
“You were trying to help the Burnses, yeah, I know. And you’re trying to help Kristen McWhorter, and the baby, and the unwed mothers of the world, and every damn soul you come across. That’s why you’re a priest, Clare. I, on the other hand, am a cop. The only thing I’m trying to do is catch the sonofabitch who killed Katie McWhorter and her father and send him to the chair. And I will do anything—anything within the law—if it means getting closer to that arrest.” He spread his legs slightly and hooked his thumbs into his belt, an archetype of law enforcement authority. “If that interferes with your agenda, I’m sorry. But don’t act the outraged innocent with me when I’m doing my job.”
Clare flushed hotly. “You! Can kiss my ass!”
“Oh, very nice. They teach you that in seminary?”
She spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, past an embarrassed-looking Harlene, past the abandoned main desk. Behind her, she could hear Russ’s voice, exasperated, angry. “Clare. Clare!”
She took the stairs two at a time and burst out into the icy night air. She interlaced her fingers tightly and took a deep breath. The cold, dry air made her cough. She clattered down the front steps, almost losing her footing, and swung around the corner into the station parking lot.
Karen was standing next to her Range Rover, arms folded. Officer Durkee was inside, his flashlight bouncing off the windows and mirrors. Karen’s lips pinched together when she saw Clare. “I’m not going to be able to give you a lift back to my place. My vehicle’s going to be out of commission for awhile. And I have to wait for our lawyer to get here.” She glanced at Durkee’s shadowy form. “I’ve asked him to try to get a stay on the warrant.”
“Karen,” Clare began. “I’m so sorry . . .”
The other woman pulled a knit hat from her coat pocket and twisted her hair underneath it. Automatically, she pulled a few loose curls down here and there, framing her face. “I’m sure you are. And I’m sure that when this is all over, I’ll be able to listen to your apology. But right now, I’d rather you just leave me and my husband alone.”
Clare dropped her arms to her sides. She could feel a hot pricking behind her eyes. “Of course. I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t think . . .” Karen’s scornful look told her it was obvious she hadn’t thought. Clare bobbed her head and left the parking lot as fast as she could, wanting nothing so much as to put the fiasco behind her. What had she been thinking? Her mind drew a blank. She had been dismayed that the Burnses had lied to the police. She had been hopeful that Karen’s confession would finally clear them in the investigation. She had been . . . pleased with herself, bringing a new piece of information to Russ, like some attention-starved dog showing off a trick. She jammed her hands deep into her pockets in disgust. She hadn’t been thinking, just feeling. And reacting.
She stopped at an intersection and waited for cars to pass. Damn, it was cold. Her ears already ached and it was another mile at least to the Burnses house, where her car was parked. Why hadn’t she worn a hat? A stitch in time saves nine, her grandmother said. Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. That voice belonged to the warrant officer who had taught her survival course. They were evidently in agreement with Russ.
The light turned green and she crossed. But, dammit, he was so focused on the Burnses he couldn’t consider any other possibility. Why would Karen have told her about Geoff’s absence the night Darrell was murdered if it wasn’t to exculpate him? It was so obvious! But Russ couldn’t entertain the notion that he might be wrong. Him and his ‘Me cop, you priest’ routine. Patronizing jerk.
The flash of red lights and brief blurp of a siren jerked her attention to the road. A cruiser was pacing her, its passenger-side window unrolled.
“Get in, I’ll drive you.”
“No,” she told the car.
“For God’s sake, Clare, just because you were wrong about the Burnses doesn’t mean you have to sulk like a little kid. It’s a long walk to their house.”
“I can use the exercise.”
“Clare, get in the goddamn car!”
“No.”
“I won’t ask again!”
She remained silent, facing in the direction she was walking, her eyes fixed on the building across the next intersection.
“Fine, dammit. Be that way!” The cruiser picked up speed and drove off.
In the fading rumble of its engine and the accelerating swish swish swish of its tires, she could hear her grandmother Fergusson’s voice. Self-righteousness won’t mend any shoe leather, missy, and pride won’t put a meal on the table. Wrapping her arms and her self-righteousness around her, Clare trudged on into the night.