Julia Spencer-Fleming - Out Of The Deep I Cry

“Hope you don’t mind driving my truck,” Russ said, “because there’s no way I’m going to try to wedge myself into that little skateboard of yours.”

They jounced out of the Clows’ drive, Clare climbing the gears as they drove up out of the valley until they were flying along a good fifteen miles an hour above the speed limit.

“Hello,” Russ said. “Don’t make me give you a ticket in my own truck.”

“You can’t,” she said. “You don’t have the little ticket book.”

“Damn.” He flipped open his glove compartment. “I knew there was something I forgot.”

She laughed.

“Ah,” he said. “I see my mistake now.”

“What?”

“I thought I was getting into the truck with the Reverend Clare Fergusson. But no, it’s actually Captain Fergusson, the terror of Fort Rucker.”

She grinned at him. “It feels like that, yeah. Like I could get this machine airborne if I just hit…”

“Escape velocity?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned back into his seat in a kind of studied nonchalance. “It’s amazing how weightless you can feel once a gun’s not pointed to your head anymore.”

She laughed.

“You are, without a doubt, the damndest priest I’ve ever met.”

“I worry about that.” She slowed as they approached an intersection. “I’m not so sure I’m really cut out for parish life. Doing good is one thing. Being good is a lot harder.”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t rector of St. Alban’s?” There was a tone to his voice she couldn’t name, but she couldn’t spare a glance at him as she swung onto Route 9.

“I don’t know. I could re-up as a chaplain, but I think I’m too old for the army now. No, not too old. Too…” she thought about it. “I’ve lost a lot of my ability to fit in and follow orders.”

He laughed. “I find it hard to imagine you ever had much of that ability.”

“There ya go.” She shifted up. “I’d probably go for some sort of missionary work. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, that sort of thing. Doing something to ease somebody else’s life-that’s always seemed like the point, to me.”

“What about flying? You know, quitting the priesthood entirely. There have to be a lot of opportunities for someone with your experience.”

She laughed. “You can’t quit the priesthood. I mean, yeah, you can not work as a priest. You can get kicked out of your bishop’s diocese. But ordination is forever. Like baptism. You can’t take it back.” She glanced across the cab at him. “How about you?”

“How about me, what?”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t nailing down that chair at the police station?”

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.”