“Chief?” Flynn said.
Russ shook out the blanket and laid it over the girl. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s all get out of here.” Clare let Hayes and Flynn take the lead up the trail, following behind the paramedics and their burden. Russ fell into step beside her. “Don’t believe in God, you know,” he said.
“Mmmm hmmm,” she said.
“Never saw any use for organized religion, either,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“But I do believe that everybody deserves a basic respect as a human being.”
“Even the dead.”
They trudged on silently. “Maybe especially the dead,” Russ said at last.
Clare nodded. “I like the way you pray,” she said. Russ shook his head, smiling faintly. “The last thing any of us can do for the dead is to show respect.”
“No. The last thing any of us can do for the dead is give them justice.”
She breathed in sharply and scrubbed the back of her glove against the sudden prickle of tears stinging her eyes. “Yes,” she said, after she knew her voice would be steady. “You’re right. We owe the dead justice.”
CHAPTER 5
The Burnses’ Range Rover was already parked in the lot across the street by the time Clare arrived to unlock the parish hall for their nine o’clock meeting. Fumbling with the heavy chain of keys, she paused to check her watch. She knew she was running behind, but even so, she prided herself on always being prompt. Her old steel Seiko, hanging from its olive-twill strap, read 8:55. The Burnses must not have wanted to linger around the house this morning. Well, neither had she.
Last night, Clare had slept badly, dreaming of Grace for the first time in seven or eight months. When she dragged herself out of bed, still aching with weariness, she went for a long run along Route 51, the river running slow and wide to the old mills on her left, the mountains in front of her, shell-pink and cotton-candy blue in the first light. She ran herself hard in an attempt to outpace the images of angry teenagers, surly drunks, and most of all, the snow-white face of the dead girl. Later, in her shower, she let the hot water soak into her bones, trying to quiet her mind enough to hear the small, inward voice that would tell her which way to go. What to do. In her experience, hard knowledge, painful knowledge, was a gift. God’s way of pushing aside the distractions, the self-centeredness, leaving the right way clear, open, marked for travel.
The heavy chunk of the Range Rover doors brought her back to the moment. The Burnses headed across the parking lot toward the back of the church. In their casual coats, jeans, and sweaters, they looked perfectly turned out for a Saturday morning, like models on the cover of a J. Crew catalogue. Younger, and more vulnerable than they seemed in their weekday suits or Sunday clothes. Clare succeeded in unlocking the medieval-looking door and bumped it open with her hip.
“Good morning,” she said, juggling her thermos to shake hands.
The Burnses returned her greeting, looking at her attire curiously. “Reverend Clare,” Karen asked, “are you moonlighting with the police department?”
Clare plucked at the large brown parka she was wearing. “Oh. This. Chief Van Alstyne loaned this to me last night. I forgot to return it. I have to confess, it’s so much warmer than any of the coats I brought with me, I’m tempted to permanently forget to return it.”
Karen nodded. “You used to have to go into Saratoga to get anything to wear,” she said, “but in the past few years some wonderful stores have moved into Millers Kill. I’d be happy to take you shopping some time if you like.”
Clare looked at the lawyer’s beautifully-made felt coat, which appeared to have been hand-appliqued by Austrian nuns. Probably the same nuns who did the detailed knitting on her designer sweater. Clare had the feeling she couldn’t afford Karen’s wonderful little stores.
“Shall we go inside?” Geoff asked. “Ladies?” he tacked on a moment later. They scuffed their boots on the protective mats that reached six feet into the parish hall.
“I brought some breakfast pastries,” Karen said, holding up a neatly folded white bag. “There’s a place on Main Street called ‘In the Dough’ that does the most wonderful croissants. Not to mention real bagels.”
Clare thought of the donut shop Russ had insisted on taking her to last night. “You can’t be a cop if you don’t eat donuts,” he had said, ushering her into the Kreemie Kakes Diner. He had spun out an elaborate theory that people’s personalities could be revealed by the type of donuts they ate. That the choice of jelly donut versus French cruller could unveil the secrets of a person’s soul. She had laughed at the time, but watching Karen pull an exquisitely puffed mini-muffin out of the bag, she wondered if he might not be on to something after all. She opened her door and let the Burnses precede her into her office.
“Oh, my,” Karen said. They both stopped inside the doorway and looked around slowly. “It certainly is different from when Father Hames was here.”
“Yes,” Clare agreed, thinking of the unrelieved English-country style that had been her predecessor’s office. “It’s a nice space to display some of my collections.” Over the fireplace that dominated the wall opposite the door, she had hung an intricately carved fragment from a Spanish rood screen, brightly colored Southwestern santos, olivewood bas-reliefs from the Middle East, and Pacific Island fabric-printing blocks. A pair of leather chairs that had originally furnished the admiral’s wardroom of a World War Two destroyer—her most spectacular military surplus find ever—were pulled up cozily in front of the fireplace. The large Victorian desk against the far wall was a hand-me-down from Father Hames, but Clare had replaced his oil paintings of stags and spaniels with aeronautical sectional charts and aircraft design blueprints. They shared space on the wall opposite the fireplace with several gilt-framed flea-market mirrors. Clare was very pleased with that touch, since they reflected the light from the west-facing windows flanking the chimneypiece and made the whole room glow at sunset.
“Huh,” Geoff Burns said.
“How unique,” Karen added quickly.
To the left of the door, a slightly saggy love seat faced the leather chairs. It was a donation Clare suspected hadn’t moved at the church’s last rummage sale. “Please, sit down,” she said, hanging her borrowed parka on the coatrack behind the door. The Burnses followed suit.
Clare dropped her bag on her desk and unscrewed the top from her thermos. In front of the built-in bookcase, Geoff Burns was staring at an Apache helicopter clock her brother Brian had given her for a gag, and Karen was peering at a photo of Clare in T-shirt and camouflage pants. “Is this . . . you?” she asked.
Clare smoothly pushed a mug decorated with a flying rattlesnake and the logo: DEATH FROM THE SKY! out of sight and poured her coffee into a Virginia Seminary mug instead. “That was me,” she said. “Several years ago.” She sat in a leather chair. “Let’s talk about this idea Chief Van Alstyne had for getting Cody into your foster care.”
Geoff took the love seat. “Van Alstyne’s idea? When he called me, it sounded like your idea. He made it pretty clear that the only reason he was behind it was to make sure we would let him know if Cody’s mother contacted us.”
“We were both thinking along the same lines, then.”
Karen sat down in the other leather chair. “I talked to Chief Van Alstyne, too, and I’ll tell you what I told him. There’s nothing wrong, or illegal, about Geoff and me helping out Cody’s birth mother.”
“I’m not suggesting there is. You two want Cody. From all we know, the mother—the birth mother—wants you to have Cody. And we all want to ensure that Cody has a good home with loving parents and that the girl who gave birth to him gets whatever help she needs, whether it be medical, or legal, or counseling. It would be an untruth to say we can guarantee a win-win situation—”