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He picked up the phone and dialed Clare’s number.

She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Russ.” He could hear her smile. “I knew it was you.”

“How did you manage that? I didn’t know I was going to call until I had finished dialing.”

“I’m your Psychic Friend.”

He laughed. “Does that mean I’m being charged by the minute for my call?”

“Yeah, but think about it. Isn’t a dollar ninety-nine a minute a small price to pay to have all your secrets revealed?”

“God, I hope not. I don’t think I could live with all my secrets revealed.”

“Mmm.” There was something-an audible quality to Clare’s listening. He couldn’t ever put a finger on what it was, just that he could hear the force of her attentiveness. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m beat to the ground from working double shifts for the past few days, and Linda’s left for Florida, and there’s nothing on TV, and I guess I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself.”

“Why don’t you invite yourself to stay at your mother’s? She’d love to fuss over you.”

“I don’t need fussing over. I just need…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

“A little human connection.”

“Yeah.” He pulled another Coke from the fridge and strolled into the living room. “What have you been up to lately?”

“Let’s see. Robert Corlew and I met with the roofing guys. It’s going to be a big job. The engineer says the chances are good that water has been spreading through the roof laterally, so there may be additional structural damage they’ll have to replace and more framing before they actually get to the reshingling and gutters. He quoted us some material costs. My Lord, you wouldn’t believe how expensive this waterproof-barrier stuff we’re getting is.”

He sat in his favorite chair. “I’ve checked it out myself. I believe it.”

“I have to confess, I’ve been feeling guilty as sin over taking Mrs. Marshall’s trust fund money and stiffing the clinic, but I walked away from the meeting so grateful that we at least have that option. I got the impression that the whole north aisle was ripe for a cave-in.”

“Well…,” he said, his skepticism showing through.

“I know, I know. But even if the damage is only half what they’re predicting, it’s still going to be a costly job.” She sighed. “When I became a priest, I surely didn’t think I was going to be spending so much time worrying about leaking roofs and the price of oil and water heaters.”

He laughed a little. “Every job has its boring scut work. It’s one of the great universal truths.” He drank from his can.

“What are you drinking?”

“Decaffeinated Coke.”

“I’m having a Saranac Winter Ale. Ha ha ha.”

He laughed. “Do you normally taunt recovering alcoholics with your beer drinking?”

“Just you. You’re special.”

They were silent for a beat. Then he said, “What else did you do?”

“I had a couple counseling session on Friday. Spent the afternoon in Glens Falls Saturday with one of my parishioners who’s undergoing surgery. So I missed my stint at the historical society.”

Russ clucked disapproval.

“It’s okay. I told Roxanne I’d be in Monday. Then, we had a nice Eucharist this morning. Practically a full house. I think everyone wanted to see the roof before it fell in.”

“Huh.” There was a clunking sound over the line. “What are you doing now?”

She laughed. “Putting another log on the fire. I’ve got a good one going to take the edge off the chill. This old house is drafty, and if I have to buy another tankful of oil, I’ll be eating mac and cheese for the next month.”

“You should have your church get it weatherproofed.”

“I don’t want to draw the vestry’s attention to the fact that they own a desirable property that’s wasted with one single woman rattling around in it. I’m afraid they’d sell it out from under me and I’d have to move to one of Corlew’s awful town houses.”

“One of those places with the fake names where they spell town with two ns and an e? God, that would be a fate worse than death.” He shook his head. “What are you wearing?”

She laughed. “Is this that kind of phone call?”

“Oh, Christ, you know what I mean. Sometimes people who aren’t used to the climate take a while to remember to put on another layer instead of turning up the thermostat.”

She was still laughing. Then she coughed, and in a heavy southern accent dripping with honey, she said, “I’m wearing nothing except some very high heels and a teeny-weeny-”

“No, no, no, no.”

She laughed some more. “I’ll bet the women who do those phone calls are dressed pretty much like I am now. Turtleneck, my brother Brian’s old Virginia sweatshirt, and these really warm leggings my folks sent me for Christmas. Woolly socks and ratty old Passamaquoddy slippers.”

“Oh, baby,” he said.

She giggled. “It’s the slippers, isn’t it? They drive men wild.”

“Up here in the North Country, you have to learn to appreciate warmth.”

“And my thermostat is set to sixty-two.”

“Jeez, that is cold. Maybe this spring I’ll check out your windows and walls, see if there are some simple things we can do to tighten the house up.”

“As long as I don’t have to go to the vestry for maintenance money, that would be-” She fell silent.

“What?” he said.

“Someone’s pulling into my driveway.”

He glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost 8:30.

“Hang on a sec,” Clare said, and he heard the clunk of the phone being put down.

He rolled out of his chair and paced into the kitchen, the phone still pressed to his ear. Who the hell would be dropping by unannounced at this hour? He envisioned a gang of rowdy teens who liked to make noise and scare single women. Then he thought of a sexual predator, who knew she lived all alone. Some serial rapist, just out of Clinton, looking for easy pickings-

She came back on the line. “It’s Debba Clow.”

“Debba Clow? Does she have her kids with her? She’s not trying to skip out on her ex, is she?”

“No, she’s alone. She seems really upset. I have to go. Sorry…”

She hung up on him, leaving only a wistful echo behind. He held the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone. Debba Clow. At Clare’s. At 8:30 on a Sunday night.

He dialed the station house. Weeknights, all calls to the station were routed through to the Glens Falls dispatch, since Millers Kill didn’t have the need or the resources to keep a dispatcher on 24/7. But weekends, the busiest time of their week, they had live coverage with Harlene. Harlene had been working for the police department back when Russ was still spitting out sand during the first Gulf War, and he had no doubt she would still be there when he was retired to Arizona.

“Millers Kill Police Department.”

“Hey, Harlene.”

“What are you on the horn for? You’re supposed to be at home, getting some R and R.”

“Look, there hasn’t been any trouble at the free clinic, has there?”

She whistled in his ear. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that? I think this is a clear sign that you’re spending way too much time at work. No, there hasn’t been anything at the clinic, but just after you left this evening, Allan Rouse’s wife called in. He’s the clinic doctor.”

“I know who he is.”

“Bet you don’t know why she called, though.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath for you to tell me.”

“He’s gone missing.”

“What’s that mean, exactly? He’s a grown man, and it’s eight-thirty on a Sunday night. He’s probably hoisting a few at a sports bar, where they have something on worth watching.”