I Shall Not Want

convulsively. The wooden floor beneath him was winter-cold.

'Get me something I can use for compresses,' Lyle said.

He tried to breathe in, but there was a bubble blocking his throat, like swallowing inside out. He gurgled and hacked.

'Hurry, Knox!' Lyle's hands were cradling his skull, turning his head so he could spit. Liquid gushed out of his mouth. He could breathe again. Lyle's hands went away.

'Oh, Jesus,' Knox said. She didn't sound so good.

'Shut up,' Lyle said. 'Get these civilians out of here.'

There were noises, children, but they seemed increasingly far away. The pain was everything. The only thing. He didn't want that. He didn't want that to be the last thing. He opened his eyes. Lyle was on his knees, stripping his belt out of his pants. 'Didn't know… you felt that way,' Russ managed.

Lyle's hands stuttered for a second. 'You should be so lucky,' he said. He finished pulling his belt free. 'I'm gonna tourniquet your thigh, slow down this bleeding. It's gonna hurt like a ring-tailed bitch.' He bent over, out of Russ's line of sight, and then a five-thousand-volt electrical shock went through his leg.

'Je… fu… Chr…' Russ gasped. The pain curled him forward, as if he could rise and escape it. He caught sight of his own chest.

'Lay back,' Lyle said. He did. Lyle laid something over his chest. 'I'm gonna compress you until the EMTs arrive. Won't be long.'

He lifted his hand, stopping Lyle with a strengthless motion. 'Lyle.' He could feel another bubble rising in his throat. He wanted to say this before it choked him off. 'I'm sorry.' He opened his hand. 'Friend.'

Lyle took his hand and squeezed too hard. His face pinched. 'I don't wanna hear any goddamn last words or deathbed apologies from you, you hear?'

He tried to say something, but the rushing liquid filled his throat, his mouth, his nose. He turned his head and retched, coughed, spluttered.

As soon as his mouth was clear, Lyle leaned on him, crushing him, hurting him. Russ tried to bat him away but he didn't have anything left. It was heavy, so heavy, like cold concrete burying him. He heaved for air. Lyle was going to suffocate him trying to save him. 'Can't… breathe…' he got out.

'I think you've punctured a lung,' Lyle said. 'The EMTs will set you to rights. Listen.' He heard his breath, his heart, his blood taking its last few trips around the system. 'They're almost here.'

It wasn't Lyle. It was him. He was dying. He thought of Clare. Oh, love. I wish we had had more time. He was going to die, and she would be left with hateful, angry words as their last good-bye. Already forgotten, he wanted to say. I always knew what was in your heart. Now, right now, the slate was wiped clean.

'Lyle… tell Clare…' He struggled to get enough air to push out the words. 'Tell her…'

'You can tell her yourself when you see her,' Lyle said.

He inhaled again, but it wasn't enough. His lungs burned. His head buzzed. She would know. She would have to know.

'Russ?' Lyle's voice receded into the distance, with the children and the gunshots. 'Don't you die on me, Russ!'

So, how do you pray? he'd asked her once.

She'd thought about it a long moment. She always listened, always took his questions seriously. Say what you believe, she said. Say what you're thankful for. Say what you love.

He'd never been one for prayer. But there was a last time for everything. 'Clare,' he said. Then everything stopped.

XV

No official church involvement, that was the dictat. Volunteers, on their own, could work with the migrant farmhands. That's what they had agreed on. Well, it was her day off. She could do what she wanted on her day off. And if she wanted to drive to the Rehabilitation Center and pick up Lucia Pirone for a sedate drive around the countryside, that was her own business. If they happened to stop in at a few farms and check in with the Spanish-speaking workers, that was her own damn business, too.

'You're sure this isn't going to get you in trouble with your bishop?' Sister Lucia shifted in the passenger seat. The pin in her hip was healed enough for the center to release her for the afternoon, but it was plain it hadn't healed enough to be comfortable.

'Absolutely sure,' Clare said. 'If he doesn't find out.'

Sister Lucia laughed. 'I like the way you think.'

'We're going to have to find a better solution, though. Sooner rather than later. I'm away one weekend out of four as it is. Smuggling you out of the center three days a month doesn't cut it.'

'You know Christophe St. Laurent? From Sacred Heart? He's willing to drum up volunteers, but he'd like to talk to you at some point and see if any of your people would consider continuing on, even if the outreach isn't sponsored by your church.'

In the rearview mirror, a whirl of red and white bloomed. She glanced at the speedometer; caught up in conversation, she had eased off the gas. She was now going the legal speed. She steered for the shoulder.

The first car blew past her at a speed that rattled her windows. A second car, and then an SUV, flew in its wake. State police. No sirens. Responding to a call.

Her chest squeezed, as if someone had wrapped an unfriendly hand around her heart.

Then she heard the whoop-whoop-whoop of an emergency vehicle. She stomped on the brake, grinding her front wheels into the dirt at the shoulder. 'What on earth?' Sister Lucia threw out a hand to brace herself on the dashboard.

Clare turned around in time to see the ambulance crest the rise behind her, blue lights beating in time with the pulse of her blood. From the corner of her eye, she could see Sister Lucia cross herself.

The vehicle blazed past, almost too fast to read MILLERS KILL EMERGENCY on its side.

'Do you think-' Sister Lucia started. She read the papers like everyone else. 'Could they have found another body?'

Clare shook her head. 'Those weren't Millers Kill police cruisers. They don't normally get the state police involved, unless they need one of their special units, like crime scene or a dive team or'-the penny fell as she said the words-'tactical response.'

'Which is?'

'The men who show up if there's a hostage situation or officers under fire.' Clare released the brake and tromped on the gas, jumping her Subaru back onto the road, sparing a glance for oncoming traffic only after it would've been too late to avoid it.

She accelerated down the country highway. Sister Lucia kept one hand wedged against the dash and grabbed her armrest with the other. 'Perhaps,' she shouted-the open windows that had let in a pleasant breeze at forty miles an hour were shrieking wind tunnels at sixty-five-'they've found the killer!'

That's what Clare was afraid of. Oh, God, please be with them. Please let the ambulance just be a precaution. Please let nobody be hurt.

She reached an intersection. 'Which way?' she asked. 'Where'd they go?'

Sister Lucia's hand, soft and powder-dry, settled over her arm. 'Wait,' she said. 'If they came along this road, chances are good they'll return this way as well.'