All Mortal Flesh

his wife because he was with me during the established time of death. As it turns out, he had a pretty good alibi anyway. His wife hasn’t been killed.”

“What?”

“The dead woman was a pet sitter named Audrey Keane. She and her partner were evidently deep into stolen credit cards and identity information. The police think her partner may have killed her while robbing the Van Alstynes’, then fled.” And if Dennis Shambaugh didn’t turn up, she was in the spotlight. A fugitive couldn’t remain at large for very long, could he? Her mind helpfully threw up the name of D. B. Cooper, who parachuted into the Oregon wilderness and was never seen again.

“How on earth could they get the identity of the victim wrong?” Elizabeth sounded scandalized.

“They had similar body types and hair. Close in age, too, I’d guess. They’re not sure if she was killed because she was Audrey Keane, or if she was killed because someone thought she was Linda Van Alstyne. She was”-Clare passed her hand across her face-“mutilated after she was killed.”

Elizabeth glanced nervously at Cody, who, oblivious to the increasingly gruesome conversation, was singsonging, “Big wig, big wig, big wig wide zuh woad,” along with the video.

“That’s horrific,” she said. “And up here, too, in such a pretty little town. What are the odds of that?”

“Surprisingly higher than you would think,” Clare said. “Look, you’ve got a long drive home and the weather’s getting worse. Why don’t you go ahead and call it a day? I’ll watch Cody until his parents get home.”

“This has got to be so stressful to you,” Elizabeth said, showing no signs of budging from the sofa. “Have you thought about taking some time off? Maybe going on a retreat? I know the diocese would be happy to provide a supply priest, all things considering.”

“No. Thank you. I just came back from a sort of retreat. Six days alone in a cabin in the mountains. Now I need work.” Work and love, wasn’t that what Freud called the ultimate cure?

“Not quite alone in the cabin, surely,” de Groot said in a small voice.

“Alone enough,” Clare snapped. She breathed deeply. “Alone enough to realize that right now I need to make my parishioners my priority.”

“I hope I can help you to do that,” Elizabeth said. She sat to attention, very upright and brave. “Although… won’t it be difficult to concentrate on serving them when you have criminal charges hanging over your head?”

“There are no criminal charges!” Great. Now I sound like a shrew.

“Because of this Shambaugh fellow, right. Who’s a suspect.” Elizabeth paused. “But what happens if-just hypothetically, mind you-whatever sort of evidence they pull together doesn’t implicate him? Will they start looking at you more seriously? I mean”-she laughed briefly, a musical ripple that went down the scale and up Clare’s nerves-“it’s silly, because what reason would you have to kill a pet sitter?”

“I wouldn’t have reason to kill anyone!”

“Of course not! I just meant-well, you said the police didn’t know if someone killed that poor woman because he or she thought she was Linda Van Alstyne. And it seems as if-and I may have this wrong, this is just the impression I’ve been getting-you’re fairly close to Mr. Van Alstyne.”

“Elizabeth, what do you want to know? Did I have sex with Russ Van Alstyne and kill his wife? No and no.”

The new deacon’s head snapped back toward Cody, but it looked as if the s- word didn’t interest him any more than the k-word had.

“Goodness,” she said.

“I’m sorry to be blunt,” Clare said, although she could think of several words that would have been a lot blunter. “It’s been a miserable day. It’s been a miserable several days, and I’m in no condition to play ring around the rosies. So let’s just cut to the chase. Did I have a relationship with Chief Van Alstyne? Yes. Was it inappropriately physical? No. Did it cross over the bounds emotionally? Yes. Have I severed our connection?”

No. Never. God, she was an idiot. It was a good thing she believed in redemption through grace. Otherwise, she’d have to say she was simply too dumb to live.

“Yes?” Elizabeth quivered with interest.

“I thought,” she began. She had come unmoored, and the words and events of the past four days swooped and fluttered through her head like a pack of cards tossed into the air. “We agreed not to see each other-of course, with his wife dead-but she’s not, now. They’ll have a second chance to be together. That’s good, isn’t it. No contact.”

“Clare?” the deacon leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

Pull yourself together or the bishop’s not going to suspend you, he’s going to institutionalize you. “Yes,” she said. “I’m okay.”

The phone rang in the kitchen.

“Should we…?” Elizabeth asked.

“It might be one of the Burnses,” Clare said. She rose from the chair with almost indecent haste and went into the darkened kitchen. The phone’s number pad was lit, and it was blinking with messages.

“Burns residence,” she said.

“Clare?”

“Karen. Hi. How’s it going?”

Karen made a noise that in a less elegant woman would have been a grunt. “Do you own a medium-sized backpack? Purple camo? From L.L.Bean?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“When was the last time you carried it?”

“This past week, when I was up at Mr. Fitzgerald’s cabin. I used it as a day pack when I went snowshoeing. It should still be packed from my last time out.”

“What sort of things would you put in it?”

“What sort of things? I don’t know. The usual stuff you’d take when you’re heading out into the woods in winter. Matches, gorp, one of those heat-reflective blankets. Why?”

Karen sighed. “Because they’ve just found a knife inside your backpack. A K-Bar. Which happens to be the same sort of knife that killed Audrey Keane.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Thursday, January 17

The knife doesn’t mean anything,” Lyle MacAuley said. “K-Bars are as common as dirt. You can pick ’em up at any army surplus or hunting supply store in the state. Russ had one. I have one. Who else has one?” His voice challenged the squad room.

Kevin Flynn raised a hand. “I got one when I was a kid. I was thinking of maybe going into the marines back then.”

Lyle looked at him, surprised, over the rim of his coffee cup.

“It seemed like the cool thing to do at the time,” Kevin said defensively. “It made me feel real”-he paused-“deadly.” He lapsed into a bad Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Do you feel lucky, punk? Do ya?”

“That was a.44 Magnum,” Eric said around a mouthful of doughnut.

Kevin looked horrified. “My mom wouldn’t let me have a gun!”

“Thank you, Kevin,” Russ said. “I think you’ve made your point, Lyle.” He settled himself more firmly on the desktop and planted his feet on two chairs. The familiar position helped him feel less out of place in his jeans and flannel shirt.

“Her lawyer says Fergusson’s had it since her army days.” Emiley Jensen sauntered into the middle of the briefing area and stood legs wide and arms akimbo, as if to remind Russ that this was her meeting, not his. “Says she took it up to the cabin because she wanted a knife with her when she went snowshoeing.”

“That’s just being safe, when you’re out in the woods,” Lyle said.

“Good woodsmanship or not, she’s got a K-Bar. The murder weapon.”

“No, a K-Bar’s been identified as the murder weapon. Not hers specifically. I’ve got