Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“Nothing new.”

“Why’s Quinn Tracey a suspect?”

“He plowed for all the victims.”

“All of them? And we’ve got a total of five cases?”

“Correct.”

“I’m on it. ETA five or ten minutes. I got nothing here, so for God’s sake get me backup as soon as you can.”

“Will do.”

Harlene hung up, and he had a second to appreciate the one woman in his life who didn’t argue with him or ignore what he said and do any damfool thing she liked, the one woman who did what he asked and told him what he needed to know in short sentences.

“You are not running off to get Clare Fergusson out of trouble,” Linda said.

“This is police business.”

“The hell you say. I heard that message, too. Quinn Tracey may know something about some animal killings.”

“Linda-”

“No! You let me finish! It is not like you have a hostage situation or a five-car pileup or whathaveyou. I know that boy. There’s no way he’s ever hurt anything in his life. Someone else can respond to that call.”

“Linda, we’re practically there. For chrissake, we have to go past 645 Old Route 100 to get to Mom’s house.”

In fact, he had reached the T-intersection. He slowed and put on his blinker. No cars coming in either direction. In his rearview mirror, he could see Debbie getting closer and closer. Too close. He pulled onto Old Route 100 just in time to avoid her front fender. She managed to stop before sliding into the intersection, at least.

“I’ll park nearby. You and Debbie can wait. I’ll only have to stay until Harlene can get an arresting officer on site.”

Linda sat, silent, as the heater blew and the wipers thumped and he hunched closer to the windshield, trying to stay on a road surface he couldn’t see. A cluster of rural delivery mailboxes materialized from the scrim of snow. He read the numbers. Not yet.

He drove on another mile, checking out two more mailboxes, until he found 645. The house itself was set far enough back to be all but invisible in the storm, but the dark bulk of the family’s barn loomed next to the road, disappearing upward into the ever-increasing gray.

He slowed, stopped, and finally located the MacEntyres’ driveway. He turned in, followed by his sister-in-law, but had to stop immediately in order to avoid running into a snow-covered Subaru.

Clare Fergusson’s Subaru.

“Wait here,” he said, reaching for his jacket.

Linda stared through the windshield. If she hadn’t known, the bumper stickers on the car would have given it away. Who else had both the THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU and MY OTHER CAR IS AN OH-58?

“Listen.” Linda unbuckled and twisted in her seat to face him. Her voice was dead serious. “If you do this, I’m getting into Debbie’s car and going to her hotel.”

“Dammit, don’t act like a spoiled brat who’s going to hold her breath until she turns blue.”

“I mean it, Russ. You choose, and you choose now. It’s me or her.”

He could see she was upset. Her cheeks were two bright red spots against pale skin, and her jaw was rigid. But he could also see Clare’s face, that night. I’m not willing to buy my happiness with your marriage. And neither are you.

“I already chose,” he said, his voice harsh. “I chose you.”

“Then drive me home to your mother’s.”

He let out a breath of frustration. “This is police business.”

“Goddammit! You have never put our marriage first! Never! For twenty-five years I’ve been the one who has to understand. I’ve been the one who puts myself and my needs second so the marriage comes first! It’s time for you to put your money where your mouth is!”

“You put our marriage first? You mean, like when you threw me out of the house? Like when your entire life became the goddam curtain business? Like when you slept with Lyle MacAuley? Was that putting our marriage first?”

Linda turned white. Absolutely white.

“Wait,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

She opened her door and jumped out.

“Linda!”

She flung her seat forward and hauled her suitcase out with such force she spun around in the MacEntyres’ driveway. She slammed the truck’s door shut hard enough to set his ears ringing.

“Wait.” He scrambled out of the cab. “Linda, wait.” She waded through the snow, too far ahead for him to physically catch her. She reached Debbie’s rental car.

“Linda! Wait!”

The door slammed. He was almost there, close enough to see her snapping out something to her sister. Before he could reach the car, Debbie backed out of the drive.

“Goddammit!” The car’s rear wheels spun up twin fountains of snow, then lurched forward, fishtailing back down Old Route 100.

Goddammit. When he found Quinn Tracey, he was going to make that kid sorry he’d ever been born.

Don’t move,” Aaron MacEntyre said. “Q, tie her hands.”

The young man Clare had been worried about held Elizabeth de Groot pinned in place with one hand twisted behind her back and a knife to her neck. Clare stared at him. His eyes were flat. Calm.

“Uh… how? With what?”

Clare darted a glance at Quinn Tracey. Unlike his friend, he was a wreck, his mouth slack and twitchy, his gaze skittering first to Elizabeth, then up the ladder, down the long walkway between the stalls, and finally, reluctantly, to Clare. It was then she noticed his hand, barely keeping a grip on the rifle. It must have belonged to the MacEntyres. Quinn held it like someone unfamiliar with and uncomfortable around firearms.

“With one of the stock leads,” Aaron said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

Did he mean it? Was Elizabeth really in danger? Clare narrowed her eyes. Quinn Tracey probably outweighed her, but she had no doubt she could knock him and his rifle down and be halfway to the cattle pen door before anyone could react.

She must have twitched. “Don’t try anything,” Aaron said. He shifted his hand a fraction of an inch and three drops of blood beaded up on the knife he held to Elizabeth’s throat. The deacon whimpered and shut her eyes. “Quinn! Secure the prisoner.”

Quinn leaned the rifle against a stall door and inched toward her, a woven lead dangling from his hand.

“Chrissake, Q, stop being such a pussy. She’s like a nun. She’s not going to bite you.”

Clare thrust her arms toward Quinn, clasping her hands together. It was the picture of surrender-a picture taken from TV shows. She was betting Quinn didn’t know enough to insist he tie her wrists behind her back.

He looked relieved for a second, then lashed the lead around and around her wrists. How could she reach him? She immediately discarded appealing to his humanity. Self-interest? No, that would be MacEntyre. Always go for the soft target, Hardball Wright said. Eyes, balls, throat. Hit him where he’s weakest.

Quinn knotted the lead off three times, leaving the metal clips dangling, then stepped back, straight-backed, arms akimbo. Beneath his puffy jacket, his chest swelled. “Prisoner secured,” he said, picking the rifle up.

What an ass. “Very professional,” she lied. “You’ve been training.”

“C’mon,” Aaron said, ignoring her. He twisted Elizabeth’s arm higher, forcing her on tiptoe as she pivoted away from the ladder.

“Was that what the animals were, Quinn? Training? Practicing your technique before trying it out on a human being?”

Quinn opened his mouth. “Quiet,” Aaron said, frogmarching Elizabeth up the center aisle. Quinn shoved Clare ahead of him. The smell of hay and manure and warm living cowflesh rose up around them like incense.

“Better do as he says, Quinn. I can see who’s the boss in this relationship. I bet you bend right over and take it up the-” The blow to her back sent her sprawling onto the stained cement. She landed hard against the edge of a stall.