“Oh! Reverend Fergusson!” The man let go of her sleeve and peeled his balaclava away. It was Duane, an EMT and one of Russ’s part-time officers. “I’m afraid they don’t have any need of you now, Reverend.” He raised his voice to be heard above the wind. “Better say your prayers for the rest of us, that we don’t get frostbite sortin’ this mess out. It’s ugly.”
“What happened?”
“Rental car skidded through the red light right into the path of the eighteen-wheeler. The driver says he tried to stop, but… He’s pretty shook up.”
“He’s okay?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s the other two that bought it.”
A sick and terrible weight ballooned in the pit of her stomach. “I have to get in there,” she said.
Duane shrugged. “Stay out of the way,” he advised. Clare skirted an ambulance-sitting there, both EMTs waiting patiently in the cab, no rush to the hospital for them-and sloshed through a well-churned morass of snow toward the accident.
Four members of the Millers Kill volunteer fire department were attacking the remnants of the car with torches. Cutting away the tortured metal to take out what was left inside. Two fire trucks flanked the scene.
“Russ!” she yelled. She skirted the edges of the light. “Russ!”
A firefighter crossed in front of her, toting a rolled hose. “Excuse me,” she shouted. “Have you seen Chief Van Alstyne?” The man-woman?-paused, then pointed to the other end of the intersection.
Clare hurried, slipping and sliding, dodging cops and firefighters, rushing, the panic and dread growing, frantic to find Russ and not wanting to see him at all.
She spotted him standing apart from anyone else. He was facing the remains of the car head-on. The closer she got, the more slowly she walked, until she was too close not to see his face.
Then she knew.
“They…” he said, in a voice that had aged a century. “They…” He pointed to the intersection. “You can see. From the tracks.” She looked. Whatever he saw in the patterns in the snow was unintelligible to her. “And… from the angle. They were coming back.”
She didn’t want to see him like this. She didn’t want to ever see such pain in anyone’s eyes ever again. If it had been within her power, she would have switched places with the woman in the passenger seat. Just to erase what she saw when she looked at him.
“They were coming back. The hotel. Was that way. They were coming back.” He stared at Clare. “And I-” His voice cracked, and he crumpled beneath an enormous cry that tore out of his chest. “Oh, God! What I said to her!”
Clare stepped forward, opening her arms, offering whatever she had.
He turned away.
He stood there, in the snow and the light and the darkness, drowning with the first bitter waters of grief, and she waited, and she waited, until she realized he wasn’t going to turn to her. Ever. She stepped back. She stepped back. She stepped back and back, out of the light, past the fire trucks and the EMTs and the squad cars, until she had vanished into the storm.
And she was lost again.
EPILOGUE
It is a cliche that there are no secrets in a small town. It is also true. Despite the fact Kilmer’s Funeral Home had no visiting hours for the late Mrs. Russell Van Alstyne and her funeral had been unlisted in the
Mindy, who had been in Russ’s class at MKHS, sighed when she caught sight of him. “Poor man. He looks awful.”
“You speaking today?” Wayne asked Cameron.
The mayor shook his head. “I’m keeping a low profile. The aldermen and I met yesterday and told him he’s getting six weeks off whether he likes it or not. Poor bastard just sat there and nodded. I don’t want to give him the chance to change his mind.”
“Can’t say I’d like to sit home and think about it if my wife got turned to jelly in a car wreck.”
“Wayne!” Mindy elbowed her husband.
“Why d’you think it’s a closed coffin, hon?” He turned back to Jim Cameron. “Where’s the other one? The sister?”
“Florida. She had a couple of grown kids who brought her remains back.” Cameron shook his head. “What a mess. This is going to screw up our state highway fatality rating for the rest of the year.”
Wayne relayed the news about Russ Van Alstyne’s leave of absence to Scotty McAlistair at the Agway feed store the next day, and Scotty, in turn, told his daughter Christy at dinner time. When Christy arrived at the Free Clinic for an appointment she thought her father knew nothing about, she was disappointed to find out the nurse pratictioner had already heard that the chief of police was off duty for the next month and a half.
“Yeah, Lyle MacAuley’s acting chief,” Laura Rayfield said, helping Christy sit up. She snapped off her gloves and popped open a cupboard door.
“Oh. Well, did you hear that Quinn Tracey’s already been charged? He’s in the Glens Falls hospital, but nobody’s allowed to see him. He’s like, locked down in intensive care. We had an assembly about what happened with him and Aaron. They had a counselor there and everything.”
“I hadn’t heard, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” She handed Christy three boxes. “I want to make it very clear these don’t prevent STDs,” she said. “You should have your partner use a condom each and every time to protect yourself.”
Christy grimaced. “There won’t be very many times,” she said. “My boyfriend’s in the marines. He’s going off to California for advanced training.”
Laura Rayfield wouldn’t have dreamed of talking about Christy McAlistair’s sex life, but she had no qualms passing along the information about Quinn Tracey when she met several nurses at the Main Street yarn shop for their weekly stitch and bitch session. They, in turn, told her that one of their colleagues was in the market to sell her house.
“She’s spitting mad about it, evidently,” Laura said to Roxanne Lunt at lunch the next day. “The husband’s taken a new job with the state police in Middletown. Alta Brewer, who’s the senior charge nurse and who hears everything, said it was very last minute. He had to do it. No one at the police department will talk to him, evidently.”
Roxanne’s passion was preservation, but selling houses paid her bills. “Have they signed with a Realtor yet?”
“I don’t think so. You should call them. Until they sell the house, he’s got one godawful commute.”
Roxanne fished her Palm Pilot out of her purse. “What’s the name?”
“Rachel Durkee. Mark and Rachel Durkee.”
Roxanne was delighted with the house. It was, she told the Durkees, in “move-in shape,” and the only fix-up she recommended was a new coat of paint in the kitchen. She was thinking about possible buyers when she got a visit at the historical society from St. Alban’s new deacon, who had broadened the reach of the church’s fundraising.
“I know you’re the mover and shaker behind the historical society, Ms. Lunt.” Elizabeth de Groot shook Roxanne’s hand warmly before taking a seat. “I feel that your organization is a natural to help us in our efforts to maintain one of Millers Kill’s most architecturally significant buildings.” She spread several photos of the church from the 1800s on Roxanne’s desk.
