Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“No. I want his cooperation.” The truck jounced down the road. “Which is why you’re coming along. He trusted you enough to talk to you. I want you to get him to trust me.”

“He might not believe me. I’m a little biased.”

“You? Darlin’, if you thought he was right and I was wrong, you’d not only refuse to give him up, you’d hand over half your paycheck and drive him up to Canada personally.”

She laughed.

“Which is why, if you say he can trust me, he’ll believe it.”

They left the truck on Saber Drive. Russ retrieved his Glock from the truck’s gun locker and slipped it into a flat holster he hung from the back of his belt. She frowned at it. “Just in case I’ve misjudged him,” Russ said.

They walked through the neighbor’s yard silently. Past the tangle of brush between the properties it became much harder to stay quiet; no one had raked in a long time, and the ground was littered with dead leaves. “Don’t walk. Shuffle,” Russ whispered. He demonstrated. It looked like he was ice-skating beneath the leaves, and all she could hear was a rustle, as if the wind were passing by. Her attempts were less successful. She swish-crunch, swish-crunched past the pool fence to the far side of the garage, where Russ was waiting.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said in her ear. “He probably thought you were a three-legged dog.”

She stifled a snort of laughter.

“You got the key?”

She handed it to him.

“I’m going to turn the lights on as soon as we go in. Be ready. You do the talking, but stay behind me.”

She nodded again. Followed him along the garage wall to the door. He unlocked it and swung it open without a sound. Clare tensed as his footsteps creaked on the wooden steps leading to the kitchen door. He slipped the key into the lock. Opened the door.

The lights coming on blinded her. She kept her eyes fixed on Russ’s back as he strode through the kitchen, into the living room, turning on the overheads. “Quentan,” she called. “Quentan Nichols! It’s me, Clare Fergusson. We spoke in my church.” She heard a faint thump overhead. Her heart thumped hard in response. He was here. A part of her hadn’t believed it. Russ snapped on the stair light and mounted the steps. She kept close to his heels. He had his sidearm out. In case I’ve misjudged him. “Quentan, Chief Van Alstyne is with me. He knows you were right about Colonel Seelye. He knows she’s after the stolen money. He needs your help to stop her.”

The bathroom was at the top of the stairs. Russ flicked that light switch, too, and silently pointed at the razor and toothbrush by the sink, the damp towel on the floor.

Two bedrooms. Left and right. “Quentan. Please.” She cast about for the right words. Was he thinking like a lover? A guilty man? A cop? “You can’t break this case yourself. The Millers Kill police can’t break this case by themselves. We have to work together.” God, that sounded trite.

Russ pushed her against the wall on the far side of one door. “Stay here until I clear the room.” He positioned himself on the other side and shoved the door open. Nothing happened. He reached around the jamb blindly until he hit the light switch. He turned the lights on in the same instant he stepped into the doorway, crouched low, his gun tracking left-right-left. He stood up. “Okay.”

Clare peeked around him. Guest bedroom, she thought, furnished with mismatched chairs and a few framed posters. The queen-sized bed was brass, high off the floor, offering a clear view of a few see-through sweater boxes underneath. Unless he was hiding beneath the mound of coats and dresses tossed on the bed, he wasn’t here.

Russ pointed toward the other room. He turned, and Clare turned with him, and then she caught his arm and looked at the bed again. The pillows were missing, and the clothes all had hangers in them, as if they’d been lifted bodily off the rack. Maybe Mrs. Walters had started sorting Tally’s things already.

Clare looked at the closet door. Maybe someone else needed the space.

Russ nodded. Gestured for her to get against the wall next to the closet. He opened the door, stepping out of the line of fire as he did so.

Quentan Nichols was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He slowly lowered the book he was holding and butted it against the.45 lying in front of him. He gave the book a shove, and the gun slid across the floor. Russ bent down and picked it up.

“Inside the damn closet was the only place I could turn a light on and be sure it wouldn’t be seen.” Nichols was scrambling up a huge skillet of eggs. He had announced that if his hideout was busted, he might as well enjoy a hot meal before they carted him off. “I can live without the Internet, and I don’t mind missing a few games on TV, but damn, if a man can’t read…” Clare glanced at the book, now resting on the mauve-and-gray-speckled counter. At the City’s Edge. It had a silhouette of Chicago’s skyline along the spine. She suppressed a smile. She supposed a big-city boy might get a little homesick, stuck in the closet in Millers Kill.

Nichols shoveled the scrambled eggs onto three plates and laid them out on the table. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of grated cheese and a bottle of hot sauce.

“I notice McNabb left in such a hurry he still had a full carton of eggs,” Russ said.

“And a gallon of milk.” Nichols smiled ruefully as he sat down. “Dig in.” He paused for a second, his hand over his fork. “Unless you want to say a blessing, Reverend.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not particularly. My grandparents raised me up strict Baptist, but I’ve slid some since then.” He shoveled a bite in. Clare did, too, suddenly ravenously hungry. Nothing like a hunt through a darkened house for an armed man to stimulate the appetite.

“Along with the groceries, McNabb left behind his calendar.” Nichols reached for the hot sauce. “Seems he had a man-date to some truck show and a dental appointment next week.”

“The head of the company told me the overseas construction unit did a six-months-on, six-months-off shift, and it was McNabb’s time to go.”

Nichols shook his head. “Bullshit. Excuse me, Reverend.” She glanced toward Russ and found him looking at her, amused. “I mean, yeah, maybe that’s the drill, but no way he’d been planning to go this past Wednesday. My guess is, he offered to swap with whoever really was scheduled to join the crew in Iraq.”

Russ nodded. “I think Seelye scared him and he ran.”

“You don’t think they’re in it together?”

“No. She came with me to the hospital when I interviewed him. I’d lay money he’d never seen her before. He didn’t recognize her name, either. When she asked him about the missing money, he lawyered up and wouldn’t say another word to either of us.”

“Coulda been an act.”

“Yeah, it could have-but then why bug out for Iraq?”

“Maybe he was personally afraid of the colonel,” Clare said. “Maybe she threatened him. Maybe she told him she killed Tally and she’d do him, too, if he didn’t cough up the money.”

Russ propped his arms on the table. Its uneven legs clunked toward his side. “Tally McNabb’s death was a suicide. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Yes, there is!” Clare put her fork down and glared at Russ.

“Only in your imagination.”

Nichols paused, his loaded fork halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, then Russ, then back to her. “What… are you guys…? You’re a minister, right?”

“Episcopalians use the term ‘priest.’” Clare nodded. “But, yes, I am.”