Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

She blanched.

“Yeah, it’s not so pretty when I put it like that, is it?” He stepped closer, crowding her against the table, looming over her in a way designed to make her feel trapped and threatened. “I wanted both of you, wanted to keep my happy wife and happy home, and I wanted you, not just meeting you for lunch at the goddamn diner, I wanted you, Clare, in my bed, underneath me. I wanted everything.” His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “And now I have nothing.”

The anger and grief and self-loathing rolled off him in waves. She knew he was trying to punish her, trying to make her hate him as much as he hated himself at this moment.

“No,” she said, her voice shaking.

“No?” he said. “No?” He smacked himself on the forehead. “Of course, everything’s changed now, hasn’t it? What was I thinking? I can have you now, right? Now there’s no inconvenient marriage in the way.” His hand closed over her wrist in a brutally tight grasp. “C’mon, the bedroom’s this way.” He yanked her arm, dragging her toward the archway. She stumbled.

“Stop it!” she shrieked. She twisted out of his grasp. “What do you want from me?” She whacked him as hard as she could on his chest. “What do you want from me?” She hit him again, and again, until he batted her fists away and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her tight against him.

“God damn you,” she said, and burst into tears.

“Aw, Clare,” he said, his voice unrecognizable in her ear. “Clare, no. Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She was shaking, and he was shaking, and over her own gasps and tears she heard a terrible wrenching noise come out of Russ’s chest. His first sob was like the ricochet report of ice cracking in the spring, and then they were both crumbling, sinking to the floor, knees tangling, ribs heaving, faces wet.

She clawed her hands free and dug them into his back, hanging on as his body spasmed with grief and his pain tore free in wracking, sloppy sobs. The sounds choking from the back of his throat were so deafening that at first she thought she imagined the ringing sound. But it went on and on, clearly audible during the lulls when he gulped air and rocked against her. She blinked away the water in her own eyes in time to see Margy Van Alstyne snatch the phone and retreat with it into the living room.

A little while later, Margy returned. She hung up the phone and came toward them, kneeling beside her son, one arm around Clare and the other stroking the hair away from his forehead. Clare could feel him shake and relax, shake and relax, and she realized he was trying to calm himself down.

“Sweetie,” his mother said after a minute or two, “that was Lyle MacAuley. There’s been some news.” Russ shifted away from Clare, purposefully this time, and she let him go. “Do you want to hear it, or do you need more time?” He sat back on his heels, wiping his face with one flannel-sleeved arm. He nodded to Margy.

“Lyle said one of the boys at the high school came into the principal’s office and asked to speak to you. He claims he saw a strange car in your driveway on Sunday. Lyle wants to know if you want to go there and talk to the witness, or if he should bring the boy in for questioning.”

“Yes,” he said. His voice was clotted. He coughed and tried again. “Yes. I’ll talk with him.”

Clare figured there might be places she felt more awkward. Fully robed in her vestments in the middle of a snake-handling-and-speaking-in-tongues revival, for instance. Wearing shorts and a sports bra in downtown Kandahar, maybe. But sitting in the Millers Kill High School principal’s office ranked right up there at the moment.

After Russ’s mother had delivered the message about a possible break in Linda Van Alstyne’s murder case, Russ had staggered up from the kitchen floor like a bull suffering from one too many cuts in the ring. “I’m going,” he said.

“Not like that, you’re not,” Margy said.

“What?”

“Russell Howard, you’re in no shape to be driving anywhere.”

From the depths of the last few minutes, Clare felt a bubble of humor rise. So that was his middle name. It sounded like a 1930s movie star.

“Mom-”

“Listen to me, sweetie. Losing a loved one and having a baby are two times when you can’t trust your own head. I remember one time right after your father passed. I nearly plowed into a tree. I just lost track of where I was and what I was doing. Let me take you back to town.”

“You have to be here when Debbie arrives.”

“I’ll take him, Margy.” The offer was out of Clare’s mouth before she had a chance to think about it.

Russ looked at her.

“I have to head back anyway. I left my new deacon in the lurch.” She looked at Margy instead of Russ. “I’ll carry him on over to the high school, and when he’s done, I’ll drop him off at the station. I’m sure he can get a ride home with one of the officers.”

“Okay.” Russ’s voice, tired and acquiescent, surrendering.

“Oh.” She sounded stupid. “Really?”

He nodded. “I guess I ought to listen to Mom.” He turned to retrieve his tartan scarf from the top of the washing machine. “I picked up too many guys who thought they were fine after drinking a few beers. Sometimes, you’re not the best judge of whether you’re good to go or not.”

Margy unhooked his coat and handed it to him. “Will you be home in time for supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Margy opened her mouth; Russ seemed to realize this was an unacceptable answer. “I’ll call you if I’ll be late,” he amended.

She nodded and contented herself with a fast, fierce hug, one for him and one for Clare. Margy didn’t say anything more, but the look she gave Clare as she followed Russ through the kitchen door didn’t need any words. Take care of my son.

He didn’t say a thing to her during the drive down to the center of town. Which was okay by her. She didn’t know what he needed from her, and she sure as hell didn’t know what she ought to be giving him. She pulled into the buses-only zone to let him off by the door. “I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot,” she said.

“Would you come in with me?”

“What?”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate. I don’t have anything to do with this investigation.”

He snorted. “Never stopped you before.”

“Russ. Doesn’t the phrase ‘people talk’ mean anything to you? We agreed-”

“Please.” He laid his hand over her coat sleeve. “I feel… I could use a little support.”

He sounded embarrassed. He was never going to be a man who was comfortable asking for help. It wouldn’t make it any better if she told him his reaction was common in the recently bereaved. It was almost impossible, in the face of loss, not to cling to those around you. A good pastor-

Oh, who was she kidding. She didn’t feel pastoral about any of this. She was just too stupid to say no to him.

She opened the door and stepped out. The sky overhead was the clear winter blue that looked as if it went all the way up to the edge of space, but northward she could see a solid line of gray massing over the mountains. The next storm.

The high school was long-and-low, an ugly, early seventies assemblage of unnaturally even bricks and orange panels. It had been built end-on against the old high school, a narrow three-story building with high windows and undoubtedly even higher heating bills.

“That’s where the admin offices are now,” Russ said, pointing toward the old school. As they crossed the parking lot, Clare could see the two schools didn’t actually touch but were instead connected by a paved and low-walled walkway.