Another brilliant piece of deduction by the head of the Millers Kill Police Department. Idiot. She dug her fingers into the paper sack to keep from smacking the surprise off his face. A Pontiac pulled in the lot, parking beside her Subaru. Automatically, they each stepped back. Away from each other.
His gaze sharpened again. 'Your bishop pushed you into recommissioning. Knowing you might well be deployed.'
'I wasn't pushed. I had my own-'
His snort blew away her rationalization. 'Because you took out Aaron MacEntyre.'
'Because I have a record of-'
'He was going to gut-shoot me. He was ready to do it.'
Clare compressed her lips into a thin line. She didn't want to stroll down that particular memory lane. Then she realized where he was going. 'No,' she said.
'Because of me.'
'No.' She was louder this time. The older gentleman getting out of the Pontiac paused and looked at them nervously. Was the chief of police about to haul some belligerent soldier away?
'We are not having this conversation.' She turned toward her car. Russ caught at her sleeve, and at that moment, her phone began playing 'Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee' in her pants pocket. Proof, if ever she needed it, that there was a merciful God.
'Yes, we are,' he said.
She fished out the phone and opened it. 'Hello?' She twisted, more firmly this time, breaking his hold on her.
'Clare? This is Sister Lucia. Lucia Pirone.' The sister's voice was thready. Clare backed toward her Subaru, keeping her eyes on Russ. He took a step toward her. Then
'Lucia? What is it? I'm sorry, I can hardly hear you.' She bumped up against the car and set her sack on the hood. Russ took another step toward her. She pointed at his jacket pocket.
'The hell with my phone,' he said.
'There's been an accident,' Sister Lucia said. 'My van-'
'An accident?' Clare jabbed her finger at Russ again, then made a face. 'Are you okay?'
He opened his jacket and retrieved his phone. Checked the caller ID. Frowned. He retreated to his own vehicle to answer it.
'No, actually, I don't think I am.' Clare realized the weakness in the nun's voice had less to do with signal strength than with injury.
'Lucia. Have you called nine-one-one?'
'Yes.' There was a noise, as if the older woman were gasping for breath. 'There are two officers here. An ambulance is coming.'
'How can I help?'
'I was-' Her voice faded away.
'Lucia? Lucia? Where are you?'
'Sorry. I'm off Route 137 in Cossayuharie. The van-a tire blew. We went off the road.'
'We?'
'Some of the men are hurt,' the nun said. 'They're afraid. They're running off into the woods-please, Clare, please-'
'I'll be right there. I'm getting into my car right now. You sit still and do whatever the EMTs tell you to. I'll take care of everything else.'
'Thank you-' The call went dead. Clare dropped the phone back into her cargo pocket. Swung open the back door and dropped the bag of booze on the floor. She paused, hand in pocket, fingers curled over her keys. She could just get in and drive away. She didn't have to say anything to Russ.
She turned back to him and was startled to find he had recrossed the parking lot and was a scant few feet away from her again. 'I've got to run,' she said. 'This missioner nun I've agreed to help, Sister Lucia, she's-'
'Been in a single-vehicle accident. It's a bad one. I'm headed there.'
'Oh.' His phone call. Of course. 'I guess I'll see you there.'
'I guess I'll take you there.' He turned toward his truck, beckoning her to follow him.
'I don't think that's a good idea.'
He turned back toward her. 'Do you even know where it is?'
'Off the Cossayuharie Road…' Her voice sank as she realized Sister Lucia's description covered a lot of ground.
'I guarantee I can get you there ten-fifteen minutes faster than you would on your own.' He shrugged. 'But it's up to you.' He strode toward the pickup.
She stood, paralyzed, for a second.
'Wait!' She dashed across the lot. 'I'm coming with you.'
III
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, but kept the same steady pace toward the Ford F-250. By the time he crossed to the driver's side, she had climbed into the cab and was buckled in, staring straight through the windshield as if the Napoli 's Liquor sign were the most interesting thing she had seen all day.
He fired up the truck. Unclipped the light from its mount and, rolling down his window, slapped it on the roof of the cab. 'Hold on,' he said.
He pulled onto Route 137, accelerating until he was roaring down the county highway at a good twenty miles above the speed limit. He took his attention off the road for a split second, just long enough to glance at her. It was funny. When he'd thought of her these past months-when he'd let himself think about her-it was always as she was the day Linda died: white-faced, bruised, bloody-mouthed. Her eyes going green with horror as she stared at her hands.
This Clare's pointed nose and high cheekbones were flush with health. She radiated energy, from her crossed arms to her boots, planted square and firm against the floorboard. Whatever was making her eyes glint brown, it wasn't horror.
'Well?' she demanded.
'Well, what?'
'Aren't you going to tell me it's your fault I'm going into harm's way? That if it hadn't been for you, I'd be in prayer and meditation right now instead of waiting to hear if I'm called up? Aren't you going to take responsibility for me screwing up my pastoral duties, and Linda and her sister dying, and every person you work with and every crime ever committed under your watch and'-she waved a hand at the coffee-colored fields unfolding all around them-'and global warming? Didn't you say we had to have this conversation?'
He did. Except he was going to look like an idiot if he just repeated everything she'd said. Christ, what did he think he was going to achieve by getting her in the truck with him? He should have left her there in the parking lot, her and her spiffy little Subaru and her grocery sack of liquor.
