Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

"I know." The crunch of wheels caught Kevin's attention. MacAuley's squad car reversed onto the looping drive from its parking spot beyond the barn. He backed up until he was parallel to them in the classic driver-to-driver position. His window powered down.

The chief leaned forward, his hands on the door. "Anything?" He jerked back. "Whee-ooh! What the hell've you been in?"

"Sheep," MacAuley said. He didn't sound happy. Kevin could understand why. He was several feet away from the open window, and even he could smell it. "We found diddly-squat," the deputy chief went on. "Although I'd by damn like to go back there with a good dog. I'm betting whatever they sell is there, in the byre. That stink could cover up a multitude of sins."

"Later," the chief said. "We need more." A dog's yelp made Kevin jerk around. Bruce and Neil Christie sauntered across the drive, Neil holding back two of the devil dogs. Kevin felt a clammy dampness along his spine.

"Everything okay, Chief?" Bruce grinned at them.

The chief jerked his chin down in a nod. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said.

"I hope you're putting the same effort into finding the guys who shanked my place," Bruce said.

"We treat all reported crimes seriously." The chief's good-citizen voice was starting to slip. He jerked his head toward Kevin. "Time to go, Officer Flynn. We've disturbed these folks enough for one night."

"You bet your ass you have," Neil Christie said.

Bruce shot his brother a look. "We'll keep the dogs back until you're past the gate." He grinned at them again. "Please don't forget to fasten it. We don't want the livestock getting out."

Kevin slid into the passenger seat. The chief got in, and fired up the engine. They followed MacAuley and Noble slowly along the rutted drive. Kevin glanced at the chief. He seemed lost in thought.

"Chief?" Kevin kept his voice low. "Whatcha thinking?"

The chief pinched the bridge of his nose. Made a noise deep in his chest. "I'm thinking this isn't the way I wanted to spend tonight."

Clare walked over to the church early Wednesday morning for the seven-thirty Eucharist. The night before, exhausted from the drive from Fort Dix and tense over the state of her home, she headed straight for the rectory, which had turned out to be so much neater and cleaner than it had been before the burglary, she was a little embarrassed.

Anne Vining-Ellis and her youngest son, Colin, were waiting at the great double doors. Her skirt and blouse said she was headed for the Glens Falls Hospital. Colin, in pipe-cleaner jeans and pointed shoes, looked like he was auditioning for an eighties revival band. "I'm delivering your acolyte du jour," Dr. Anne said.

The boy pushed his overgrown bangs away from his face. "Under protest. Organized religion is a tool of the capitalist machine."

"He's taking a summer AP course in Marxism-Leninism," Dr. Anne said. "God help us all."

Clare handed the teen her overloaded key ring and Thermos of coffee. "Would you open up for me, Colin? And drop this in my office?"

He took the jangle of keys. "Why not? I'm only a member of the proletariat, crushed by the oppressive boot heels of history. Want me to light the candles, too?"

"Thanks." Clare turned to his mother. "Remind me to give him some books on liberation theology."

"Don't bother. The second half of the unit is Adam Smith and John Maynard Keynes. He'll probably be selling the church silver on the free market." Dr. Anne watched Colin disappear into the narthex. "How are you doing? I almost came over last night, but I figured you'd be wiped after the drive from New Jersey."

"Thanks, yeah. I'm okay. I'd be better if I heard Señor Esfuentes has been found safe and sound."

Dr. Anne shook her head. "Nothing yet that I know of."

Clare sighed. "That's what I thought. I figured Russ-someone would call if anything turned up." She looked past Church Street 's steady stream of commuter traffic, headed for Glens Falls or the Northway. The park appeared much less magical in the strong morning sun. "I keep going over Sunday night in my head, wondering what I could have done to prevent it. Should I have dragged him over to the party? Gone home early? Left someone to watch over him?" She reached for the back of her head, ready to repin falling pieces of hair, but this early in the day her twist was still inviolate.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record, it's just as likely he trashed the place and went off."

Clare shook her head. "No."

Dr. Anne started down the sidewalk. "Sometimes I think you carry this look-for-the-good-in-all-people thing too far," she said over her shoulder.

"I know," Clare said. "It's an occupational hazard."

It was a typical Wednesday morning, ten communicants, if she counted herself and Colin. No one, thank God, wanted to linger and chat about last Sunday's events, and she was disrobing in the sacristy five minutes after she had dismissed her flock.

In the office, Lois greeted her with a hymn. "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war," the secretary sang, "with the hel-i-cop-ters, flying on before."

Clare peeked into the tiny hole-in-the-wall that was the deacon's office. No one was there yet. "It's no wonder Elizabeth thinks we're both deranged."

Lois rolled her eyes. "I think the National Guard ought to pay me for putting up with that woman while you're gone."

"What happened?"

"She wanted to know what I thought of you taking up with Chief Van Alstyne again."

"Taking up with-?"

"I told her I don't gossip and I don't care to listen to those who do. Then, of course, she was sweet as cream, saying she was just worried about people thinking it a scandal. I told her the only scandal would be if you let the best man in Millers Kill get away." She leaned on one elbow and pointed the letter opener at Clare. "Which is not to say I don't give a thumbs-up to Hugh Parteger. He has lovely manners, and he makes five or six times what the chief of police does."

"Maybe you should ask him out, then. I don't think he's going to be calling me anymore. Not after this past weekend."

Lois pulled a stack of pink phone messages free from a spiked note keeper. She selected one and held it up. "I don't know about that. He phoned three times. Wants to talk with you soonest."

Clare groaned. "Please tell me there are a lot of work-related messages I have to return first."

"The bishop wants you to call. Her Holiness was complaining to him about your having a dangerous criminal in the rectory, that sort of thing. And he wants to know why you're in the paper. Again."

"I'm in the paper?"

"There was a story about the break-in and poor Señor Esfuentes's disappearance in the Post-Star . It doesn't mention him by name-I suppose they have to find his next of kin and all, poor souls-but you're featured front and center. That reporter called for a statement."

"Ben Beagle?"

"Mmm-hmm. I told him you were away, preparing to defend the freedom of the press with your life."

"You didn't."

"Well, no, not in those words. I did tell him it was National Guard duty." She plucked a pink message slip off the spike and rattled it between her long fingers. "I swear, that rag's getting no better than one of the tabloids. Made it sound as if none of us are safe in our beds. Well, none of us who might be Hispanic."

Clare held out her hand for the rest of the pink message slips. "I suppose I should count my blessings. At least Elizabeth isn't holding a press conference about my scandalous carryings-on. Yet."

"I heard poor Mr. Parteger was left kicking his heels on the sideline while you and Chief Van Alstyne danced all night."