Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“Believe me, it’s even nicer to be here under my own power.” The corridor on either side of the station was empty. Cardiac intensive care didn’t have ambulatory patients, and visitors were strictly limited. “I’m looking for Reverend Fergusson.”

The night nurse’s smile stretched into a grin. Yeah, she would have remembered Clare. He suspected ministers didn’t usually stay at a parishioner’s bedside for twenty-four hours straight.

“You’re in luck,” the nurse said. “One of the care team has just gone in to flush his shunt and tap his lines. The family should be coming out any-” Her prediction was proved true before she could finish it. Five doors down the hall, a group emerged from a room: two men in their sixties in rumpled business wear that looked like it had been slept in, a grandmotherly sort in hospital-sensible sweats, and a tired-faced priest in black clericals with a long white satin stole about her neck. She glanced his way and stopped, blinking her surprise. She said something, low, to the family. He caught the word “cafeteria.” They drifted toward the elevators, passing behind him and the night nurse with scarcely a glance at his uniform and gun, too emotionally wrung out to be curious.

Clare limped toward him. She had traded the donated crutches for an ugly but functional hospital-issue cane, and the first thing that came out of his mouth was “Did Dr. Anne take a look at your ankle?”

She stuck her foot out. The ACE bandage had been replaced with a plastic-and-Velcro cast. “She gave me this. It makes walking a lot easier, I can tell you.”

“What about your shoulder?”

“I’m on antibiotics for that. Took my first dose this afternoon.” Her eyes shifted away.

“Really?” He didn’t try to hide his skepticism.

She looked straight at him. “I really am taking antibiotics, yes. What are you doing here?”

“Picked up some guy so stoned he couldn’t tell me his name. Thought he’d better get seen.” He shook his head. “Druggies.”

Clare glanced at the night nurse, back behind her curved counter. “Nancy? Will you let me know when Gail is done and I can go back in, please?”

“Of course I will, Reverend.”

Clare gestured with her head toward the CIC lounge across from the elevators. He resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and tote her into the room, settling for walking just behind her to catch her if she fell. The waiting room was done in early modern Valium, all mellow colors and soft lights. The well-sprung modular seating said, Stretch out here and have a nap, everything will be fine. Clare looked at the couch facing the door with distaste. “Not there. In the corner.” She limped toward a pair of chairs half-hidden behind a banana palm and dropped into one of them like a marionette who had had its strings cut.

“Mr. Fitzgerald’s in congestive heart failure. The family called me.”

“You’ve got a sprained ankle and a banged-up shoulder. You need to rest. Couldn’t the priest who filled in for you be doing this? He’s still around, isn’t he?”

“Father Lawrence is at his daughter’s house in Glens Falls, not here. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Mr. Fitzgerald is my parishioner.”

He leaned forward. Her face was drawn, but despite being smudged purple with fatigue, her eyes were as bright and alert as ever. She must have downed a thermosful of coffee. “Okay. How long will it take you to hear his confession, or whatever? I’m finishing up my shift. I’ll drive you home.”

“Russ.”

“It’s the least I can do. I would have done it for-” He cut himself off before ramming his boot all the way down his throat.

“For your wife?” She spread her arms as if to emphasize the black clericals and the symbols she wore. Collar. Cross. Stole. “I’m not Linda. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do for me.” She let her arms drop. “Mr. Fitzgerald is dying.” She smoothed a hand over her stole, dimpling the heavy satin. “He’s dying, and his children are afraid, and I’m going to stay until the end.”

He took off his glasses. Polished them against the knee of his trousers. He thought of her reaction to the couch. Realized she must have sat there after he’d been shot, not knowing if he would live or die. He’d been back on the job within five months. Linda would have insisted he retire. Clare had never said a word, other than “Be careful.” She understood his job was what he did.

So this was what she did.

He put his glasses back on. “Can I do anything to help?”

She smiled. “Not unless you’ve taken up prayer while I was gone.”

He made a noise.

“I have a question for you.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her change-of-subject tone. “What?”

“How is Eric McCrea doing since he came back? In your judgment?”

“Why? Is there something I should know about?” She flipped her hand open. Answer the question. “Okay,” he said. “I haven’t seen or heard anything that worries me. He’s taken several sick days since he came back from Iraq. Which is a lot, for him. I told him he could have more time before he returned to duty. I figured this is his way of pacing himself.”

She nodded. “He seemed… charged up when he responded to the call from the soup kitchen Friday. Aggressive. As if he were perceiving a threat where none existed. Could he be using something? Steroids?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. That sort of behavior’s not unusual, coming off a war zone. I remember trying to clear some underbrush from behind Mom’s house the summer I got back from Nam. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t walk into the trees and the tangle without my M-15 in my hand.”

She smiled faintly. “I wonder if that’s one of the reasons you became a cop. So you’d never have to go without your gun.”

“No.” Involuntarily, his hand fell to his service piece. “I haven’t fired my gun off the range since the Christie hostage incident. Before that, it had been seven years.”

“I didn’t say use it. I said go without it.”

He opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. “Hmm.” He nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Eric. If he seems stressed, I can partner him up with one of the other officers or give him some time off. We’ve got access to a psychiatrist the town contracts with. Although having done my mandatory fatal fire session with the guy, I’m not wild about sending anyone else to him.”

Clare’s smile was broader this time. “Lowest bidder, huh?”

“That’s my guess.” He thought about where they were, thought about who might see them, thought the hell with it. He stood. Bent over her, bracing his hands on the arms of her chair. Kissed her. “Call my cell phone after-when you’re ready to come home. I’ll drive over and fetch you.”

“From your mother’s? That’s ridiculous.”

“Just call me.”

“Russ, I told you. I don’t need you riding to my rescue because I’m out late or because I got a little banged up. I can take care of myself.”

“Clare.” He touched his forehead to hers. “Listen.” He pulled back so he could see her eyes. So she could see his. “Every day you were in Iraq, I woke up wondering if this was it, if this was the day I’d get word that you’d been killed. Every night I watched footage and commentary and reporting and statistics until I wanted to put a boot through the damn TV. I had to see it, and hear it, and think about it, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.” He straightened. “For God’s sake, now you’re home, let me do something. I’m not trying to turn you into-I don’t know-the little woman. I just need to-to-” He ran out of words.

“Take care of me.” Her voice was balanced between understanding and dislike. “Russ-”