for the sonofabitch who had done this to her. But he had been right, it would be a waste of time at this point. Either the guy had found his way back to his vehicle or he was losing his feet to exposure someplace.
He glanced over at Clare. Knocked him down with a tree and bashed him with a rock. Jesus. He smiled a little.
When they pulled into her driveway, he said, “Keys?”
“I left them in my car. But don’t worry, it’s—”
“Unlocked. Of course.” She didn’t argue when he opened her door and picked her up to carry her inside. He grunted as they went up the steps. “Don’t make a habit of this, Clare, or I’m going to have to buy a truss.”
Inside, he deposited her blanket-wrapped form on the sofa and cranked up the thermostat. “Okay,” he said, “You need dry clothes, a tub of tepid water to soak those feet in—” She groaned loudly at the suggestion. “—and something warm to drink. Not coffee, the caffeine’s bad for your circulation.”
“Hot cocoa?”
“That’s fine. Where can I find stuff?”
She gave him directions. Her bedroom was spartan, nothing but bed, dresser, and her Army sweats tossed over some wooden kneeler-prayer-thingy in front of the uncurtained window. He grabbed the sweats and dropped them next to her on the sofa before hitting the kitchen to find the cocoa ingredients. No bags of instant, of course. He put the milk on to heat and rummaged beneath the sink for a plastic tub, which he filled with lukewarm water.
“You decent?” he called from the kitchen.
“Yeah.”
He walked slowly, careful not to slosh the water. “Stick your feet in there,” he said, settling the tub in front of the sofa. She pulled the legs of her sweatpants up a bit and complied.
“It feels warm.” She looked surprised.
“That’s because your feet are so damn cold. I don’t have to do anything like hand-grate imported bittersweet chocolate and hazelnuts for this hot cocoa, do I?”
She made a face. “Just sugar and cocoa. Oh, and a drop of vanilla extract is nice.”
“I have to introduce you to the Kreemie Kakes Diner version of hot chocolate.” He found everything quickly. Like her office, her kitchen was orderly and well-organized. She was a woman who had her priorities, no doubt about it.
“Here you go.” He put two mugs on the coffee table, then crossed to the front window and tested to see if the tops locked.
She craned her neck to see what he was up to. “What are you doing?”
“Locking you in.” He moved to the front door, threw the bolt and latched it at the top. “Who can I call to come and stay with you tonight?”
“Russ!” She sounded scandalized. “I couldn’t impose on anyone like that.”
He turned to her. “Clare, someone put a lot of effort into killing you tonight. Let’s not make it any easier for him to take a second crack at you.”
“But he’s—”
“We don’t know what he is. The guy who attacked you might be a Popsicle right now. Or he might have gotten onto his snowmobile and ridden away. And don’t forget whoever that woman was who called the church to get you out there.”
She worried her lower lip. “All right. You can make sure the doors and windows are all locked,” she said. “But I don’t know anyone well enough to ask over. It would be an imposition.”
“Your mother teach you that? You sound very Southern when you say ‘an imposition.’ ” He crossed the room to stand in front of her sofa. “You’re exhausted and you can barely walk. You think of someone you can ‘impose’ on right quick like or I’ll station one of my officers here.” She glared at him. “Which will mean taking someone away from traffic duty during a major storm.”
Her face melted into a look of concern. She gnawed on her lower lip again. “Doctor Anne,” she said finally. “Anne Vining-Ellis. She lives a couple blocks away.”
“She the same Doctor Anne who works the Glens Falls emergency room?” Clare nodded. “I’ve met her. I’ll give her a call.” There was a cordless phone on the table behind the sofa. He dialed information, punched in the number and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to check the upstairs windows,” he told Clare.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” she said.
“Hello, Ellis residence.” He jiggled the latches in Clare’s bedroom. Locked.
“Hi, is this Dr. Vining-Ellis?”
“Sure is.”
Another bedroom was empty except for a Nordictrak exercise machine and a floormat. The windows were locked.
“This is Chief Van Alstyne of the Millers Kill Police Department. We’ve met a few times before—”
“Over a few drunk drivers. Of course. How can I help you, Chief?”
He sketched out the situation while testing the latches in the next bedroom. It looked as if it had been a guest room for the former priest, and nothing had been removed. He was pretty sure the gun and dog prints and the dark Depression-era furniture weren’t Clare’s. Doctor Anne was horrified at the story of her priest’s ordeal. “Of course I’ll come over and stay with her,” she said. “It’s absolutely no trouble at all. I’ll bring my kit and give her a going-over, too, just to make sure she doesn’t need to be admitted to the hospital.”
He thanked the doctor and rang off. One of the windows in the bathroom was propped open a sliver. A fine line of snow had accumulated on the sill. He shut and locked it. The toilet was running, and he couldn’t get it to stop by
