“Eleven fourteen.”
His birthday. She keyed it in. The first message was from Harlene. She was asking him to call in and report his whereabouts. She sounded odd. Far too formal and respectful. The next one-“Chief? It’s Lyle,” the recording said. She gestured for Russ to pass the paper and pen. “The license you gave me belongs to a 1990 Buick LeSabre registered to Audrey Keane. Her address is 840 Bain-bridge Road, Cossayuharie. She’s got a clean record and no priors.” He paused. Clare could hear the hiss of the recording. “Things are pretty hectic here. I’m going to sit on this until you let me know what you want to do. Call me if you need anything.”
Clare jotted the information down and tilted the pad toward Russ as the next message played. “Chief Van Alstyne?” It was a woman’s voice, crisp and sharp as a winesap apple. “This is Emiley Jensen. I need to talk to you about the ongoing investigation as soon as possible. Please call me when you get this message.”
Next was the familiar sound of Margy Van Alstyne, her usual matter-of-fact tone sharp with worry. “Russell? It’s your mother. What in the Sam Hill is going on? I’ve had two calls from Harlene, trying to find you. That’s not like you. I know you’re feeling bad, sweetie, but I promise things will get better. If you don’t want to deal with work, come on home and I’ll bar the door and take the phone off the hook so no one can bother you. Please don’t… do anything foolish. I love you. Call me back.”
“Your mom is worried about you,” Clare said, closing the voicemail.
“I’ll call her.” He studied the paper. “Anything else from the station?”
“Lyle’s not going to tell anyone about the license of the car until you contact him.”
Russ grunted.
“Is the state investigator named Jensen?”
“Emiley Jensen. Emiley-with-an-extra-
“You.”
“Uh-huh.”
She handed him his cell phone. “What can I do?”
He looked at her a long moment, then snorted a half-smothered laugh. “You’re something else, you know that? If I get hauled in and charged-which, by the way, I fully expect will happen-you’d be an accessory.”
She shrugged. “I’m not if I didn’t know you were wanted for questioning.” An image of Willard Aberforth sprang up before her, all baggy eyes and inconveniently pointed moral questions.
“What if I did it?” He sounded distant, as if he were talking about someone else.
“You couldn’t have.”
“What if I did?”
“You’re not capable-”
“Clare, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in twenty-five years of law enforcement, it’s that anyone is capable of anything if pushed hard enough. What if I did it and I’m just racing around trying to cover my ass at this point?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
He rocked forward in the chair suddenly, snapping it on its springs and leaning into her space. “I want to know what you
She stared into his eyes, crackle-glazed blue. They hadn’t been this close since… she cut off that thought. For whatever reason, this was a deadly serious question for Russ. Not what would she do for him, but what wouldn’t she do?
“I wouldn’t deny God for you,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t betray my country for you. I wouldn’t break a parishioner’s trust for you.” Without conscious intent, her hand started to curl over his. She yanked it back into her lap. “I wouldn’t let you get away with it if I found out you were doing something wrong.”
“I am doing something wrong. I’m evading questioning by a New York State Police investigator.”
She made a face. “That’s rule-breaking. I mean
He creaked back in his chair. His eyes went flat. “Too late for that.”
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s never too late for redemption.”
“I’m never going to be able to make this up to Linda. She’s gone. It doesn’t matter what I do, what I say, how sorry I am. She’s gone.”
“I don’t believe that. Even if I did, even if the death of the body was the end of everything, you’re still alive. And while we live, it’s not too late to ask for forgiveness. To mourn the lost chances and the bad choices and to do better going forward.”
“Who do I ask forgiveness from, Clare? Who? You? Linda? Your God?”
“Try asking yourself.”
“Christ.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. His lashes were wet. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Oh, Russ.” She felt a stinging behind her eyes. “We none of us get what we deserve, thank God. We get what we’re given. Love. Compassion. A second chance. And then a third, and a fourth.”
He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “How the hell can you be so damn certain? How can you sit there and be so goddamn serene?”
She laughed, a sound that came out as a harsh rasp. “Serene? Me? You don’t think I’m carrying around a guilt overcoat for what I did to your marriage? I can barely look at myself in the mirror.”
He sat up straighter. “You? You didn’t do anything. I was the one who was married. I was supposed to, I don’t know, keep my guard up.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Do you forgive me, then?”
“For what? Being the sort of person I couldn’t help falling in love with?” His laugh didn’t sound any better than hers. “Yeah. For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
A kind of power filled her at his words, a moment of rare certainty that the Divine was right there, with her, in her, moving through her. She stood up. “What gives you the right to forgive me for the sins I committed against Linda?” She ducked her head close to his.
Whispered. “Love?”
She laid her hands on his head, not lightly, as if she were giving a blessing, but hard, molding his hair and skull beneath her fingers and palms. “Who here condemns you?” she quoted.
His chest moved with shallow breaths. “No one,” he said, finally.
“Then Love does not condemn you, either.” She was close to him, close enough for her forehead to touch his, close enough to smell the faint pine and wool scent of him. “Go, dear heart, and sin no more.”
TWENTY-FIVE
He could not have moved if his life depended on it. The pressure of her hands, her breath on his face-it should have been sexual, if it was anything, but it wasn’t. It was a current, there and gone again in an instant, leaving him trembling. Except he wasn’t. His hands, resting against the wooden arms of the chair, were steady. It was a blow. Or a sound. That he hadn’t felt, didn’t hear.
What the hell?
She released him, and he thought his head might float away. Or his heart. He cleared his throat. “I…” he began.
She not-quite-touched a finger to his lips. “Let’s think about what you need to do. And what I can do to help.”
He nodded. Yeah. That would be good.
“Maybe we could split up your leads. I could check out this Oliver guy in Saratoga, and you could follow up on the car they saw in your driveway.” She glanced at her battered Seiko. “High school will be getting out in an hour and a half. Maybe we could catch Quinn Tracey’s friend then.”
