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.”
CHAPTER 5
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
