“Yeah. G’night.” He stalked back to his squad car, got in, buckled up, turned on the ignition, and threw the car into reverse without saying a word. He looked over his shoulder, ignoring the woman in the passenger seat, and discovered two hairy heads blocking his rear view. “Down!” he said. The dogs whined briefly and then lowered themselves, paws pitter-pattering on the cruiser’s vinyl upholstery as they arranged themselves on the backseat. He rolled backward between two trees, turned around, and drove slowly over the grass to the park entrance. He nosed through the gates, looked both ways, then bumped the car over the curb onto Mill Street.
“Well?” Clare said. “Say something!”
“You broke your promise to me.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did. You stood right in front of me and promised you wouldn’t talk to the press about this.”
“That was when there were only two attacks. For God’s sake, Russ, a man has been murdered! That’s more important than some exercise in spin control.”
He turned on her at that. “Damn it! Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about? Bad press?” He snapped his attention back to the road. “You insult me.” She glanced at him and then looked down. “You think my job is about solving crimes?” he continued. “It isn’t. Solving a crime means I’ve already failed. My job is preventing crimes. And you and Sheena, Queen of the Reporters, have just made that more difficult.”
“By telling the truth?”
“Your version of the truth.”
“Oh, come off it. If you mean to tell me you still don’t think these attacks are connected, I will laugh in your face. I swear I will. It’s time to speak out, Russ. It’s
He swung the cruiser onto Main Street. “Fine! Preach against prejudice. Start a voter initiative to change the state’s constitution. Get up a gay-pride parade and march it down Main Street. I don’t care so long as you have a permit. But don’t compromise my investigation and start a panic because you’ve decided the three cases are connected!”
“I don’t need your permission to help people! And I don’t need your permission to speak out against hatefulness! If you had warned the press Saturday that someone was going around beating up gay men, maybe Bill Ingraham wouldn’t have been caught in the bushes with his pants down!”
The light at Main and Church turned red and he slammed on his brakes, throwing them both against their shoulder harnesses. The dogs barked and scrabbled against the seat for purchase. He twisted so he could look at her head-on. Her hazel eyes were glittering in the light from the dashboard and he could see patchy red spots high on her cheeks.
“Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?” His rage, which had been feeding on each exchange like a fire consuming logs, died out. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and compressed her lips. Her eyes shifted away from his. “It is,” he said, a part of him surprised at how much the realization hurt. “You think I’m responsible for Ingraham’s death.”
“No. I said he
The light turned green, and he faced forward, his eyes fixed on the road. They traveled the length of Church Street in silence. He turned onto Elm and drove up the rectory drive, then put the car into park.
“Russ,” she said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”
He popped the locks and got out. He released the grateful dogs, who tumbled over themselves exiting the back seat.
“Russ…”
He looked at her over the cruiser’s roof, thought about tossing off some line about cops always having critics, then found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to playact with her. He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. Just…never mind.”
Clare stood at the edge of the drive, looking at him, twisting the bottom of her sweatshirt. The dogs were already nosing at the front door, whining to be let in. He got back into the cruiser and started it up.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out. “Russ, please. I’m sorry….”
He waved a hand in acknowledgment as he pulled out of the drive. He could see her face as he drove down the street, a white oval in the darkness. The image stayed with him for a long time.
Chapter Twelve
When Clare opened her front door the next morning to let Bob and Gal out, the air was clear, the grass and leaves were sparkling in the sunlight, and she felt rotten. Guilty. Lower than a worm’s belly, as Grandmother Fergusson would have said. She leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, her hands thrust in the pockets of her seersucker robe, and tried to take some pleasure in the sight of two happy dogs sniffing out every corner of a perfect morning. But all she could envision was Russ’s face, changing from anger to pain as she fumbled and missed her one chance to take back her hurtful words.
Well, she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken a stand against homophobic violence and had raised the red flag against hate crimes. And all it had taken was eviscerating her best friend.
She walked barefoot down the steps and across the lawn to the newspaper box to retrieve Monday’s
“God,” she said, “I believe you brought me here to Millers Kill for a reason. But so far, I mostly seem to be screwing up my own life. Please help me out here. I need to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”
Somewhere beyond the open double doors, the phone rang.
Clare raised her eyebrows and rose from her seat on the porch steps. In her experience, God didn’t respond to prayer with a phone call outlining His thoughts and expectations, but she was willing to keep an open mind. She
