He took his glasses off and fished a tissue out of his pocket. “When I retired from the army, I had a couple job offers to manage private security firms.”
“I find it hard to imagine you running a rent-a-cop shop.”
“Me, too.” He cleaned his glasses, balled up the tissue. She glanced over again and found he was looking at her. “This is what I would be doing. This job. This is where I’m supposed to be.”
She turned onto Old Route 100. “This way’ll get us there, won’t it?”
“It sure will.”
They drove on in silence for a few minutes. “I think that’s the real difference between us,” she finally said. “You know you’re in the right place. Doing the right thing. With the right person.” He looked away from her. “I don’t have that certainty. I thought my call would make me certain. But it hasn’t.”
“I’ve got fourteen years on you,” he said, still looking out the window. “I’ve had a lot more time to figure things out.” He pointed. “Don’t miss the county road up there.”
She slowed down and kept the speed moderate as she drove up to the reservoir. The road twisted and rolled, up and down.
“There.” He pointed to a wide, cleared track through the trees. It was a good half mile before the site of the accident. “That’s a boat put-in. That’s where the diving team’s working from.”
She muscled the pickup down the trail, crunching over the last of the icy, hard-packed snow, the tires squelching and sucking through the water-saturated ground. The trees opened up to a clearing the size of a small parking lot, crowded with an ambulance, a state police dive truck, a trooper’s squad car, and two unmarkeds. She could see three men, one in uniform and one braced with a walking cane, gathered around some sort of aluminum dock. She parked as close to them as she could, eyeing the heavy gray clouds that were collecting across the sky. The walk would be hard enough on Russ’s leg without making him hike through rain. “Sit right there,” she said, killing the engine. “Let me help you down.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But if your crutches get stuck in the mud and you pitch face forward while getting out, you’re going to lose some of that cool law enforcement mystique.”
He grunted when she opened his door, but he handed her his crutches and braced his hand on her shoulder while he lowered himself out of the truck cab. She returned the crutches when he was on the ground. “Thanks,” he said. He caught her arm before she could move away. “That certainty thing,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not. Certain. About lots of things. I just know where I belong.”
They walked down to where the men were standing, Clare shortening her usual stride so as not to outpace Russ. The man with the cane turned as they approached. He was short and squared off, his cropped graying hair almost the same shade as his expensive wool coat, and he might have been dapper if it weren’t for the ropy white scar that split his forehead from eyebrow to hairline. “Reverend Clare,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Dr. Dvorak.” She hugged him. “I’m delivering Chief Van Alstyne.”
Russ leaned on one crutch and shook hands with the medical examiner. “Hey, Emil. Anything yet from the dive team?”
The uniformed man had turned around as well. “Nothing yet. But I expect we’ll hear from them soon. They’re maxing out their time for this water temperature.”
“Bob.” Russ nodded.
“Russ.”
“Still haven’t made the BCI, I see.”
“I’ll get there.” Bob’s eyes flickered toward Clare. Russ followed his glance.
“Have you met Reverend Clare Fergusson?” he said. “She’s the rector of St. Alban’s in town. Clare, this is Sergeant Robert Mongue. He’s with the state police.”
Clare grinned at him. “Your uniform was the tip-off.” He was as tall as Russ, but thinner, and his hair had long ago fled south. “Are you part of the dive team, Sergeant Mongue?”
“Nope. But they’re assigned to our troop, so when they deploy, it becomes part of an NYSP investigation.”
“Of course,” Russ said pleasantly, “it’s in our jurisdiction.”
Sergeant Mongue nodded. “Absolutely. It’s been two weeks, hasn’t it? Tough, not developing any leads in all that time.”
“Well, you know, when you take the time to actually investigate, as opposed to just picking a solution out of a hat…”
Clare thought she saw Sergeant Mongue’s nostrils flare. He glanced down at Russ’s cast. “I was sorry to hear about your leg. I heard you tripped and fell on your ass?”
Two pink spots stained Russ’s cheeks. “It was an accident at a crime scene.”
“Have you ever thought about establishing some minimum physical requirements for your department? You know, staying physically fit plays a major part in reducing accidents.”
“I think the normal activity involved in community policing gives my men plenty of exercise. It’s not like they spend all day sitting in a car with a speed gun.”
“Do you hear something?” Clare said, happy to jump on any excuse to stop the pissing contest. The diesel-pumped roar of a boat motor echoed across the ice and water. They all turned toward the reservoir.
The boat swung around the edge of the shoreline. It was low and wide and traveling slowly to give the ice-crusted water plenty of time to ease around the prow. Clare could see three figures, bulky and anonymous in orange dive gear, sitting aft. Another two people, bundled against the cold, were in the cockpit.
“How do the divers manage in this kind of weather?” Clare said. “That water’s still mostly covered in ice.”
“They’re wearing dry suits and neoprene liners,” Sergeant Mongue told her. “They’re probably more comfortable than we are right now. The real trick in extreme weather is keeping the tender and the pilot warm.”
The boat steered toward the aluminum dock, and Mongue excused himself to step out onto the floating platform.
Russ’s eyes narrowed. “The real trick in extreme weather.’ ” He parroted Mongue’s voice very well. “Like he knows.”
“What’s with you two?” Clare pitched her voice low. “I thought I was going to pass out from the testosterone fumes.”
He laughed. “Just a little intramural rivalry.”
The boat slid into position next to the dock, and the tender-at least that’s who Clare assumed it was, since the woman neither piloted nor dove-tossed a line to Mongue. They tied the boat into place and the divers stood up, lifting a webbed stretcher, and Clare had so steeled herself for the sight of Allan Rouse, pale and cold and waxy, that it took her a moment to process what lay on the stretcher.
“That’s a skeleton,” Russ said.
Dr. Dvorak glanced at him. “Very good.” He turned to the divers, clambering over the side of the boat while balancing the remains. “Be careful.”
The one who wasn’t toting a skeleton removed her suit hood and climbed over the boat’s bow. “Are you the M.E.?” she said.
Dr. Dvorak was beckoning the two divers closer. “Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on the remains. “Can you stop here for a moment?” he said when they reached his side. The remains were loosely wrapped in a fine net, and Clare could see that although the divers had been meticulous about keeping the pieces together, most of the bones were no longer connected to one another. Dr. Dvorak bent over the skeleton, examining it closely, touching it here and there with a single finger. The bones were long and brown, as if they had been steeped in tea for a decade or more. He straightened. “I think I can tell you with absolute confidence this is not Allan Rouse,” he said to Russ.
“Ya think?” Russ glared at the bones as if they had been laid on the stretcher for the sole purpose of frustrating his investigation. “Who the hell is it?”
“Whoever it is, it…” Dvorak drew a thoughtful finger across the skeleton’s pelvis, and another along the length of its thighbone. “He,” he said, more emphatically, “has been in there for a long time.”