All Mortal Flesh

Remember, he told his hands. Remember this.

He woke up at some point. The embers in the woodstove were a smudge of orange. He lifted himself up on one elbow, careful not to disturb Clare, and looked out the window. The snow had stopped. The stars were blazing with the fierce light that only comes in the hour before dawn. Part of him knew he should go, but then Clare gave a little snore and burrowed closer against him. He drew the knitted afghan from the back of the sofa and tucked it around them. He lay awake for a long time, watching her sleep.

Bright sunlight streamed through the windows when he woke the second time. He was alone, covered in the afghan. The cabin was warm again. He sat up, fumbled for his glasses on the coffee table. The first thing he saw was the woodstove, stuffed with logs, heat rolling off it in waves. The second thing he saw was the note on the coffee table. My dearest Russ, it read, I’m sorry, but I can’t say any more good-byes to you. I’m taking my snowshoes and my lunch and I’m going, like Thoreau, to be alone in the woods. He almost wanted to smile. How many guys got Thoreau quoted at them in a Dear John letter? “Only you, Clare,” he said to the empty room. “Only you.”

He threw the note into the woodstove. Then he left, to start the rest of his life without her.

THIRTY-FOUR

Inspector Jensen came back into the interview room. “His story jibes with yours,” she said.

“That’s because we’re both telling the truth,” Clare said.

Jensen looked at her as if she had just offered to sell the Brooklyn Bridge. “Reverend Fergusson, there’s a saying we learn in law school. ‘Most crimes aren’t witnessed by priests and bishops.’ It’s a way of explaining to juries why the prosecutor trusts the testimony of some scumbot who’s got a record almost as long as the defendant’s. But I’m thinking there must be a flip side to that saying. How can there be a crime if a priest or a bishop is a witness?”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

Jensen sat on the table. Clare had to look up to see her face. “Here you are, a priest. Rector of the local church. And you’re alibiing Mr. Van Alstyne. Normally, I’d say, ‘Okay, that clears that up! Thanks very much, Reverend!’ ” She leaned closer. “But you two weren’t exactly at an all-night prayer meeting, were you? You were lovers.”

“That’s… not exactly accurate.”

“Even more of a reason to help him off his wife. He wouldn’t sleep with you while she was still around, so-” Jensen sliced her finger across her neck. “Your church doesn’t have a problem with widowers remarrying, does it?”

“That’s ridiculous! I wouldn’t sleep with a married man, but I’d be okay with murder? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“One thing I’ve learned, Reverend, is that most of the time, there is no sense behind killing someone. A sixteen-year-old kills a twelve-year-old because the kid hit him with a water balloon. A guy beats another guy to death outside of a bar because he thought he was hitting on his girl. A couple of drifters drag a grandma behind the shopping center and shoot her for twenty bucks and the keys to a ten-year-old minivan.” She shook her head. “A pair of lovers conspiring to kill a spouse so they can be together? Hell, that’s not just reasonable. It’s one of the oldest stories in the book. David and Bathsheba, wasn’t it?”

“Russ Van Alstyne didn’t kill his wife.”

“Can anybody else place him at that cabin between sunset and sunrise?”

“Of course not! That was the point.”

“Hey, I understand. I wouldn’t want any witnesses if I was boinking somebody’s husband, either.”

“I wasn’t-” A thought stopped her. “Deacon Willard Aberforth came to visit me on Monday. Around one or two o’clock. I have his number somewhere.”

“Did he see Mr. Van Alstyne?”

“No. Russ was gone by the time I got back.”

There was a sharp rapping at the door. Noble Entwhistle stuck his head in. “What is it now, Officer Entwhistle?” Jensen didn’t sound pleased to be interrupted.

“Sorry, Investigator.” He didn’t look at Clare or Jensen. “Sergeant Morin’s back. He wants to see you.”

“Okay.” She rose. Glanced at Clare. “We’ll continue this in a moment. While I’m gone, I’d like you to think about the vocabulary word of the day: accessory.”

Alone, Clare folded her head into her hands. She didn’t want to think about the last half hour. Every person in the dispatch room now thought she was sleeping with Russ Van Alstyne. No, everyone in the tri-county area, as a reporter from the Glens Falls Post-Star had also been present for her declaration. She would have to leave the country. She could work with the poor in the slums of Calcutta. After twenty or thirty years, the gossip would die down. Not in Millers Kill, of course, where she had probably enshrined herself as a local legend, but there might be somewhere in the United States where she could show her face without shame.

She heard voices outside the door and hastily sat up again. It sounded like an argument. Then the door opened and, to her surprise, Karen Burns, Geoff Burns’s wife and law partner, strode in. It must have been one of her days spent working at home and taking care of their toddler-she was in jeans and a sweater that had undoubtedly been hand-loomed by Kashmiri goatherds.

“What are you doing here?” Clare said.

“Geoff called me. Right after you made your announcement. Wish I had been here for that.”

Clare covered her face with her hands again.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here. You’re done answering questions.”

“But…” Clare stood up. “I don’t think Investigator Jensen believed me.”

“The woman with the too-tight suit and the Payless shoes? I spoke with her. The archbishop of Canterbury could show up and swear the three of you were playing pinochle all night and she wouldn’t believe it.” Karen smoothed her already immaculate auburn hair and looked at Clare with exasperation. “Why did you agree to talk with her without a lawyer?”

“Well, Geoff was here.”

“Geoff can’t help you. He’s representing Russ Van Alstyne, and the two of you have adverse interests.”

“No, we don’t!”

“Come on,” Karen urged. “I want to get home to Cody. Then we can talk.”

“Oh, my God, you didn’t leave him alone to come down here and bail me out, did you?” She let Karen lead her out the door and into the hall. A phone was ringing in Harlene’s dispatch board. Voices, indistinct but excited, leaked from the squad room.

“One, you haven’t been arrested. No arrest, no bail. Two, I would never leave a two-year-old by himself. Fortunately, the new deacon was over to talk about the capital campaign. She was great. She volunteered to watch Cody for me as soon as she heard what had happened.”

“Jesus wept!” Clare peeked into the dispatch room. It was empty, except for Harlene, entering information on a keyboard with furious strokes. Clare lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me Elizabeth de Groot knows about this. Please.”

Karen gave her the same look of compassionate contempt her mother had the time Clare righteously walked out on a high school date who had been telling racist jokes and then had to hike five miles home. In heels. “What did you think was going to happen when you told a room full of people that Russ Van Alstyne spent the night with you?”

Clare forced herself not to drop her head like a fifteen-year-old. “I didn’t really think.” She gave herself a shake. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. The important thing is that the investigator understands Russ didn’t kill Linda Van Alstyne.”

“I understand that now.” Jensen emerged from the chief’s office clutching a manila folder. “Sergeant Morin’s just gotten back to me with the oh-so-belated fingerprint report.” Geoff Burns followed the investigator into the hall,