Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

The sixth book in the Reverend Clare Fergusson series, 2008

To the librarians and libraries

who have taught me, shaped me, befriended me,

and recommended me, including:

The Alfred C. O'Connell Library, Genesee Community College, Batavia, NY; Baldwinsville Library, Baldwinsville, NY; Bangor Public Library, Bangor, ME; Berwick Public Library, Berwick, ME; Beverly Public Library, Beverly, MA; Boothbay Harbor Public Library, Boothbay, ME; Clifton Park-Half Moon Public Library, Clifton Park, NY; Crandall Library, Glens Falls, NY; Delaware County Library, Delaware, OH; The Dwight Foster Memorial Library, Ft. Atkinson, WI; Edwardsville Public Library, Edwardsville, IL; Exeter Public Library, Exeter, NH; Falmouth Public Library, Falmouth, ME; Gorham Public Library, Gorham, ME; Huntingdon College Library, Montgomery, AL; Kennebunk Free Library, Kennebunk, ME; Lee-Whedon Memorial Library, Medina, NY; Liverpool Public Library, Liverpool, NY; Lucius Beebe Library, Wakefield, MA; Lynn Public Library, Lynn, MA; Mackinac Island Public Library, Mackinac Island, MI; Manhattan Public Library, Manhattan, KS; Nevins Memorial Library, Methuen, MA; Normal Public Library, Normal, IL; North Conway Public Library, North Conway, NH; Norway Public Library, Norway ME; Patten Library, Bath, ME; Perry Public Library, Perry NY; Portland Public Library, Portland, ME; Puyallup Public Library, Puyallup, WA; Richmond Memorial Library, Batavia, NY; Rockland Public Library, Rockland, ME; Romeo District Library, Washington, MI; Scarborough Public Library, Scarborough, ME; South Portland Public Library, South Portland, ME; South Windsor Public Library, South Windsor, CT; Tuftonborough Free Library, Center Tuftonborough, NH; Vose Library, Union, ME; Warren Memorial Library, Westbrook, ME; Warren-Trumbull Library, Warren, OH; Waterford Public Library, Waterford, NY; Wells Public Library, Wells, ME; Wetumpka Public Library, Wetumpka, AL; Wood County District Library, Bowling Green, OH; and the Argyle Free Library, Argyle, NY.

Thanks, as ever, to everyone at St. Martin 's Press, at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and at the Hugo-Vidal house. I couldn't do it without you-literally.

Thanks to the friends and family who hosted me in my travels; Jamie and Robin Agnew, John and Lois Fleming, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Dan and Barbara Scheeler, Neil and Tammy Lynn, Calvetta Spencer Inman, Mark and Laura Hubbard, David Lovett and Meg Ruley, Gordon and Rebecca Scruton, James and Mary Ellen Harris, and especially Rachael Burns Hunsinger, who turned her home into a writer's retreat so this book might get finished.

Thanks to those who gave me information, inspiration, and edification: The Reverend Mary L. Allen, Dr. Michael Brennan, Roxanne Eflin, David Garza, Timothy LaMar, Albert A. Melton, Dr. Parker Roberts, Lieutenant Colonel L. R. Smith (USA Ret.) and the Very Reverend Benjamin Shambaugh.

Finally, thanks to singer/songwriter Bill Deasy, whose CD Good Day No Rain was the perfect soundtrack to Russ and Clare's story. (He even looks like Russ Van Alstyne!) Go to BillDeasy.com and give it a listen.

– Isaac Watts (1674-1748) paraphrase of Psalm 23,

The Hymnal, 1982, The Church Pension Fund

When she saw the glint of the revolver barrel through the broken glass in the window, Hadley Knox thought, I'm going to die for sixteen bucks an hour . Sixteen bucks an hour, medical, and dental. She dove behind her squad car as the thing went off, a monstrous thunderclap that rolled on and on across green-gold fields of hay. The bullet smacked into the maple tree she had parked under with a meaty thud, showering her in wet, raw splinters.

She could smell the stink of her own fear, a mixture of sweat trapped beneath her uniform and the bitter edge of cordite floating across the farmhouse yard.

The man shooting at her turned away from the porch-shaded window and yelled something to someone screaming inside. Hadley wrenched the cruiser door open, banging the edge into the tree. She grabbed for the mic. "Dispatch! Harlene? This bastard's shooting at me!" Some part of her knew that wasn't the right way to report an officer under fire, but she didn't care. If she lived to walk away from this, she was turning in her badge and her gun and going to work at the Dairy Queen.

The radio crackled. "Hadley? Is your eighty still the Christie place?"

She could barely hear the dispatcher over the shouting and swearing from the farmhouse. She thought she made out two masculine voices. "Yes," she yelled, getting a squeal of feedback from the mic. She tried again, forcing herself to speak in something like a normal tone. "He's got a.357 Magnum." She had recognized the sidearm. Hot damn. "There may be more than one of them. Men, I mean. Not guns. Although there may be more guns." She could hear herself, close to hysteria. "For God's sake, send help!"

There was a pause. The hell with this , she thought. The hell with it. I've got two kids at home who need me . As if invoking Hudson and Genny cleared her head, she suddenly realized the highest-pitched shrieking wasn't coming from a woman. Oh, my God. Oh, shit . She squeezed the mic again. "Dispatch, it's not just the sister and the caseworker. The kids are in there, too."

This time, Harlene's reply was instant. "We've got cars on the way and the state sharpshooter team is scrambling. See if you can keep him talking until backup gets there."

Hadley stared at the mic. "Keep him talking? About what? Jesus H. Christ, I'm not a negotiator! I haven't even finished the Police Basic course yet!"

"You talked to angry guys in prison, didn't you? Think of something. Dispatch out."

Talk to angry cons? Hell, yeah. The difference was, they were behind bars, weaponless, powerless, while she walked around free, armed with baton and taser. Cons didn't shoot at you from a house full of hostages.

The kids were screeching, a woman sobbing, the man swearing. Think of something. Think of something . Hadley slithered out of the squad car and crouched behind the open door. She raised herself up until she could see out the window. "Hey!" she yelled. "Hey! You!"

The end of the.357 Magnum swung out of the farmhouse window, knocking a few more shards of glass onto the front porch. Goddamn, that thing looked as big as a cannon. She inhaled. The July sun beat down on the dirt drive, throwing up waves of heat. It was like breathing in an oven. "How 'bout you let me take those kids off your hands?"

"How 'bout you come up here and-" He launched into a graphic description of what he wanted her to do for him and what he was going to do to her. She hoped to God the children didn't understand.