Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

"Good, because-"

"I left a message with his chancellor. And with Deacon Aberforth, of course. You ought to call him, by the way. He was very concerned about your well-being."

Clare wanted to knock her head against the wall. No, she wanted to knock Elizabeth's head against the wall. "There was absolutely no need-" she began, but Elizabeth cut her off.

"The bishop isn't just our superior, Clare, he's our pastor as well. Wouldn't you want to know if one of your flock had been assaulted and vandalized?"

"I wasn't assaulted!"

"You were a month ago. That Amado Esfuentes was neck deep in it then, and instead of letting the police handle it, you brought him into the rectory. Lord knows, I'd never say 'I told you so'-"

Oh, yeah?

"-but these things do happen to you, Clare, and it's because you simply don't think before you act."

Clare opened her mouth to argue, then thought of the dance. Russ, and the music, and the warm night air, and the words. Walk me back to the rectory . She hadn't exactly been thinking then, had she?

"Clare." Elizabeth sat down opposite her. "I'm not here to be right. I'm here to help you get it right." She patted Clare's hand. "Don't look so glum. I know you're trying to keep your promise to the bishop. He's not going to blame you for this bit of nastiness." She stood up and faced the kitchen, hands on hips. "Now, let's tackle this-"

The door swung open. "Clare?" Anne Vining-Ellis tumbled in. "Oh, thank God, you're okay. Mrs. Marshall just called me and told me what happened." Clare stood to greet her and was almost knocked down by a bear hug. "Elizabeth, are you taking her home?"

The deacon looked surprised. "Well… no. I'm here to help put the rectory to rights."

"What, tonight? To hell with cleaning up. Clare, go get your pj's and a change of clothing. You're coming to my place." Dr. Anne sounded every inch the emergency room physician, snapping out orders and making split-second decisions.

Clare hadn't thought of leaving, hadn't been thinking of anything except putting the pieces of her life back together, but the idea, the freedom of simply walking away for a while, stunned her. "Really?" Then she remembered. "I can't. After morning Eucharist tomorrow, I've got to go down to Fort Dix for National Guard training. I won't be back until Tuesday evening, and I can't stand the idea of coming back to this disaster."

"You won't. Karen Burns is already organizing a crew to take care of everything tomorrow. Tonight, you're going to come home to where my large and thuggish sons can protect you, put your feet up, and have a good stiff drink. I'm sure Elizabeth will take tomorrow morning's service for you."

"Well." Elizabeth looked doubtful. "It'd have to be Morning Prayer instead of Morning Eucharist-"

"Perfect. It's settled, then. Elizabeth"-Dr. Anne slung her arm over the deacon's shoulders-"however in the world did we get along before you came to St. Alban's?"

It took Clare five minutes to throw her things into a duffel and get back downstairs. In that time, Dr. Anne had gotten Elizabeth de Groot back into her windbreaker and was easing her out the door, slathering the deacon with comfort and praise and appreciation like it was so much melted butter. "Night-night, Elizabeth," Dr. Anne called out the kitchen door. "See you tomorrow!" She shut the door. Turned toward Clare.

"Thank you," Clare said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Lacey Marshall told me she was headed for your house. I figured I'd better get over as fast as I could to prevent the murder-suicide."

Clare laughed shakily.

"C'mon. I meant it about the drink." She opened the door again. "I heard Russ Van Alstyne was practically necking with you at the dance tonight, and I want all the juicy details."

Kevin started to worry when he heard the dogs.

It had been exciting, getting the call from the deputy chief, everybody pulled back on duty, digging the tac vests out of the trunk of his squad car. He was sorry Reverend Fergusson had been upset and that her place was trashed, of course he was, but-tac vests! The chief had commandeered both his cruiser and the second vest, and, with Kevin riding shotgun and MacAuley and Noble right behind, headed out to the Christie farm in Cossayuharie.

In daylight, they could see the place from Seven Mile Road, but to reach it they had to go across a narrow side road and then up a rutted dirt lane. A gate barred the way, a metal pole-crosspole fastened to a sturdy-looking fence that ran off into the darkness in either direction.

"What's that for?" the chief asked.

"They raise sheep," Kevin reminded him.

"And they roam all the way down here? Huh. Open that thing for me, Kevin."

He sprang out of the car. And that's when things started to go to hell. He had taken one step toward the gate when two pole-mounted motion-sensor lights blazed on, flooding the lane and its surroundings, spotlighting him like a Friday-night quarterback.

Then he heard the dogs; a full-throated baying, as if a pack of hellhounds had been set loose up by the house.

And they were headed for him.

"Kevin," the chief shouted, but he didn't wait to be ordered back into the car. He pounded toward the latch, popped it free, and pushed the top rail as hard as he could. It fetched up against something, jarring his arms, making him stumble back.

The chief was yelling something over the din of the approaching dogs. "… rolls to the right!" Kevin made out. "It rolls!"

He pulled the heavy gate open just far enough to wedge himself between the fence and the crossbar, and pushed. The gate rolled. He ran with it, pushing, the dogs getting closer and closer, visible now at the edge of the light, black and tan and white pointed teeth, and the chief gunned the cruiser and jerked it forward and the passenger door bounced closed and then it was open again, the chief stretched across the seats, screaming, "Get in! Get in!"

Kevin made a flying leap past the seething whipcord bodies and snarling jaws and landed inside the car. He and the chief scrambled for the handle, yanking it shut as one, two, three German shepherds thudded against the metal and glass, howling and barking and snapping their teeth. He let out the breath he'd been holding. In like Flynn .

"Jesus, Kevin." The chief sounded like he had been the one running out there. "Don't do that to me again. I thought you were puppy chow." He unhooked the mic and tuned the radio for car-to-car. "Lyle?"

"Here."

"No chance of sneaking up on 'em. May as well go in with lights." Behind them, MacAuley's cruiser blinked into whirling red and white.

"Awful lot of security for humble sheep farmers." MacAuley's voice over the radio was laconic.

The chief triggered the mic. "The Christies are sheep farmers the way trucking agents in New Jersey are legitimate businessmen. When we reach the dooryard, go as far around the side of the barn as you can. I don't want anybody slipping away through the back forty."

"Will do. Over."

The chief threw the car into gear and rolled forward. The German shepherds paced them, too smart to charge a moving vehicle, too focused to let them pull away.

As they reached the dooryard, another two motion sensor lights came on, one over the front porch, the other up on the barn. The two buildings were set kitty-corner to each other, with the dirt lane looping past each and rejoining itself. The house, from what Kevin could see, looked as if every generation of Christies had made one addition or another, until the most recent: a trailer on blocks at the far side of the yard, electrical wires running between it and the main house. The trailer was dark, but a handful of windows in the house were lit.