Julia Spencer-Fleming - To Darkness And To Death

He opened the door and reached for the mike. “At least it’s not raining,” he reminded himself.

Shaun heard the siren before he saw the car. He had gotten into town a few minutes before and was looping around, Main to Church to Elm to Washington, facing up to the flaw in his plan to scuttle the sale of Haudenosaunee land tonight.

He didn’t have any idea where to stash the girl.

At first he had thought a motel, but the more he considered it, the more dangerous it seemed. Unless he was willing to stand over her all day and all night-and he could just imagine trying to explain that to Courtney-there was no way he could guarantee she wouldn’t be able to attract attention, by banging on the door or blasting the television or even breaking a window.

He had a friend with a camp up past Lake George, but Davis liked to hunt, and Shaun wasn’t going to gamble that he’d stay away this weekend. His son’s apartment? He could say he wanted Jeremy to spend the night at home. But then, even if he could con his son, which he doubted, he faced the same breaking-the-window problem. The basement in his house? Forget it. Maybe he could drive into the country and find an old hay barn in someone’s back field. There was one they used to use for making out when he was a teenager. If he could remember where it was.

Then he heard the siren. He took his foot off the gas and craned his neck, trying to spot from which direction the sound was coming. It grew louder. Louder.

Shit, it was right behind him. He felt as if all the blood in his body had drained away, to be replaced by ice water. He glanced down at himself. The jacket covered most of the blood on his shirt, but the smears on his pants would be visible to any cop looking through the driver’s window. The siren was shrieking in his ears. The cars ahead of him were pulling over. Hands shaking, he steered the Mercedes to the side of the street. He had nothing to cover his pants with. Nothing to disguise the telltale stains. Nothing-he registered the water bottle in the cup holder. He yanked it up, unscrewed the top, and dumped it over the bloody spots on his pants.

A red pickup truck with a whirling light clamped over its driver’s side hurtled past him. Dumbly, he watched it go, the plastic bottle still upended in his hand. Beneath him, water squished and puddled, soaking his pants and boxers, ruining the SL-7’s leather seat.

He hurled the empty plastic bottle to the passenger-side floor, where it ricocheted and rattled before rocking to a halt. Gritting his teeth against the exquisitely uncomfortable feel of wet fabric clinging to his thighs, he merged back into traffic. People like to say, “It was the worst day of my life,” but Shaun realized the cliché was literally true for him. He had broken his leg on a ski slope once and had to wait over an hour for the ski patrol to rescue him. He had sat through a counseling session where his soon-to-be ex-wife told him everything he ever did wrong in twenty years of marriage. He had buried his parents. But this, today, was the worst day of his life. Sitting in wet shorts, every muscle aching, a woman in his trunk and a dead man on his conscience, he wished, as he had never wished for anything, that he had never set foot out of his office this morning.

His office. He blinked. Up ahead, a red light slowed the line of traffic, and he braked. His office. No, the mill. The old part of the mill. The original building, now half-crumbling into the river, unused for the past twenty years except to store machine parts too valuable to junk. No one went there. The doors locked securely, to prevent vandals from getting in and trashing the place. There were windows, but they overlooked the Millers Kill, the river that gave the town its name. No one could get close enough to hear a single voice over the rush and fall of water over the dam and into the millrace.

It was perfect. And it was his.

For the first time on the worst day of his life, Shaun Reid grinned.

Suzanne Castle stumbled back into the waiting room from the nurses’ station, where she had been called to the phone several minutes ago. She stared at Clare and her daughter, slack-jawed and blank-eyed. “That was Ed. He’s been…” She paused. “Your father’s been arrested.”

Bonnie Liddle straightened in her seat. “What? Arrested? What on earth for?”

Suzanne shook her head. “Not arrested. I’m sorry. He said they’re taking him in for questioning. That’s what it was. Questioning.”

Clare’s stomach clenched. “Questioning him on what, Mrs. Castle?”

Suzanne turned toward Clare, although Clare wouldn’t have bet the older woman was actually seeing her. “Eugene van der Hoeven’s death. Ed says he found his body. But the police are taking him in for questioning.”

Bonnie rose and put her arm over her mother’s shoulders, hugging her. “It’s a mistake, Mom. It has to be.”

“He asked me to get him a lawyer as soon as possible. To meet him at the police station.” She turned to her daughter. “Should I call Woodrow Durkee?” Suzanne’s voice was detached. Floating somewhere above reality. “He’s handled some things that have cropped up over the years. With your dad’s business.”

“I think we need to contact a criminal lawyer, Mom.”

Suzanne frowned. “Your father is not a criminal. He’s not. He’s not.” She burst into tears.

Bonnie looked at Clare. “What are we going to do about a lawyer? How are we going to find one on a Saturday afternoon?” Suzanne Castle wept, rocking into her daughter’s shoulder. Bonnie held her mother more tightly and spoke over her head. “I don’t even know what questions to ask. No one in our family has ever been arrested.” For a moment her face wavered, and behind the competent, take-charge woman Clare could glimpse the scared eyes of a child lost in the woods. Then she blinked, and the child was gone. “Do you know anybody?”

Clare hesitated. “I don’t think I ought to be recommending a lawyer for your dad. That’s a huge decision.”

“It doesn’t have to be permanent. All we need right now is someone who’ll be with Dad when he’s questioned. Someone who will know what to do if Dad… if the police decide to charge him. So Dad doesn’t have to stay in jail.”

Suzanne Castle wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. “No,” she agreed, her voice shaky. “He doesn’t go to jail. Whatever it takes. We’ll mortgage the house if we have to.”

Bonnie bent down toward an end table and tugged several tissues out of a waiting box. She handed them to her mother. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, Mom.”

Clare blew out a resigned breath. “The junior warden at my church does criminal defense work. His name’s Geoffrey Burns. I can call him for you.”

“Mrs. Castle?” A well-built man in scrubs stood in the entrance to the waiting room.

Suzanne nodded, snuffling wetly into a sodden Kleenex. “It’s Dr. Gupta, Becky’s surgeon.” Dr. Gupta crossed the room to them. Up close, he looked more like a dashing Bollywood star playing a part than a real physician. Clare half expected him to launch into song.

He smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. “I have good news. Becky is out of surgery and doing well. We’ve caught all the bleeding. I want to keep a close eye on her kidneys for the next few days, but she’s young and strong, and I think there’s an excellent chance she’ll pull through with no permanent damage at all.”

Suzanne Castle burst into tears.

Dr. Gupta smiled understandingly. “She’s in recovery right now,” he told Bonnie. “After she wakes up, you and your mother may go in and speak with her.”

“Thank you,” Bonnie said. “Thank you so much.”