Julia Spencer-Fleming

I Shall Not Want

The sixth book in the Reverend Clare Fergusson series, 2008

To the librarians and libraries

who have taught me, shaped me, befriended me,

and recommended me, including:

The Alfred C. O'Connell Library, Genesee Community College, Batavia, NY; Baldwinsville Library, Baldwinsville, NY; Bangor Public Library, Bangor, ME; Berwick Public Library, Berwick, ME; Beverly Public Library, Beverly, MA; Boothbay Harbor Public Library, Boothbay, ME; Clifton Park-Half Moon Public Library, Clifton Park, NY; Crandall Library, Glens Falls, NY; Delaware County Library, Delaware, OH; The Dwight Foster Memorial Library, Ft. Atkinson, WI; Edwardsville Public Library, Edwardsville, IL; Exeter Public Library, Exeter, NH; Falmouth Public Library, Falmouth, ME; Gorham Public Library, Gorham, ME; Huntingdon College Library, Montgomery, AL; Kennebunk Free Library, Kennebunk, ME; Lee-Whedon Memorial Library, Medina, NY; Liverpool Public Library, Liverpool, NY; Lucius Beebe Library, Wakefield, MA; Lynn Public Library, Lynn, MA; Mackinac Island Public Library, Mackinac Island, MI; Manhattan Public Library, Manhattan, KS; Nevins Memorial Library, Methuen, MA; Normal Public Library, Normal, IL; North Conway Public Library, North Conway, NH; Norway Public Library, Norway ME; Patten Library, Bath, ME; Perry Public Library, Perry NY; Portland Public Library, Portland, ME; Puyallup Public Library, Puyallup, WA; Richmond Memorial Library, Batavia, NY; Rockland Public Library, Rockland, ME; Romeo District Library, Washington, MI; Scarborough Public Library, Scarborough, ME; South Portland Public Library, South Portland, ME; South Windsor Public Library, South Windsor, CT; Tuftonborough Free Library, Center Tuftonborough, NH; Vose Library, Union, ME; Warren Memorial Library, Westbrook, ME; Warren-Trumbull Library, Warren, OH; Waterford Public Library, Waterford, NY; Wells Public Library, Wells, ME; Wetumpka Public Library, Wetumpka, AL; Wood County District Library, Bowling Green, OH; and the Argyle Free Library, Argyle, NY.


Thanks, as ever, to everyone at St. Martin 's Press, at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and at the Hugo-Vidal house. I couldn't do it without you-literally.

Thanks to the friends and family who hosted me in my travels; Jamie and Robin Agnew, John and Lois Fleming, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Dan and Barbara Scheeler, Neil and Tammy Lynn, Calvetta Spencer Inman, Mark and Laura Hubbard, David Lovett and Meg Ruley, Gordon and Rebecca Scruton, James and Mary Ellen Harris, and especially Rachael Burns Hunsinger, who turned her home into a writer's retreat so this book might get finished.

Thanks to those who gave me information, inspiration, and edification: The Reverend Mary L. Allen, Dr. Michael Brennan, Roxanne Eflin, David Garza, Timothy LaMar, Albert A. Melton, Dr. Parker Roberts, Lieutenant Colonel L. R. Smith (USA Ret.) and the Very Reverend Benjamin Shambaugh.

Finally, thanks to singer/songwriter Bill Deasy, whose CD Good Day No Rain was the perfect soundtrack to Russ and Clare's story. (He even looks like Russ Van Alstyne!) Go to BillDeasy.com and give it a listen.

My Shepherd will supply my need, Jehovah is his Name; In pastures fresh he makes me feed Beside the living stream. He brings my wandering spirit back When I forsake his ways, And leads me, for his mercy's sake, In paths of truth and grace. When I walk through the shades of death, Thy presence is my stay; One word of thy supporting breath Drives all my fears away. Thy hand, in sight of all my foes, Doth still my table spread; My cup with blessings overflows, Thy oil anoints my head. The sure provision of my God Attend me all my days; Oh, may thy house be mine abode And all my work be praise. There would I find a settled rest, While others go and come; No more a stranger or a guest, But like a child at home.

– Isaac Watts (1674-1748) paraphrase of Psalm 23,

The Hymnal, 1982, The Church Pension Fund



When she saw the glint of the revolver barrel through the broken glass in the window, Hadley Knox thought, I'm going to die for sixteen bucks an hour. Sixteen bucks an hour, medical, and dental. She dove behind her squad car as the thing went off, a monstrous thunderclap that rolled on and on across green-gold fields of hay. The bullet smacked into the maple tree she had parked under with a meaty thud, showering her in wet, raw splinters.

She could smell the stink of her own fear, a mixture of sweat trapped beneath her uniform and the bitter edge of cordite floating across the farmhouse yard.

The man shooting at her turned away from the porch-shaded window and yelled something to someone screaming inside. Hadley wrenched the cruiser door open, banging the edge into the tree. She grabbed for the mic. 'Dispatch! Harlene? This bastard's shooting at me!' Some part of her knew that wasn't the right way to report an officer under fire, but she didn't care. If she lived to walk away from this, she was turning in her badge and her gun and going to work at the Dairy Queen.

The radio crackled. 'Hadley? Is your eighty still the Christie place?'

She could barely hear the dispatcher over the shouting and swearing from the farmhouse. She thought she made out two masculine voices. 'Yes,' she yelled, getting a squeal of feedback from the mic. She tried

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