All Mortal Flesh (12 page)

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.

“Mine was one of the last classes to graduate from the old school.” Russ opened one of the wide central doors for her, and Clare walked beneath the initials
M.K.H.S
. chiseled in Gothic lettering on the lintel.

“Nice,” she said, and she could see it must have been, despite the file cabinets and spare chairs now lining the halls.

“Classrooms were great,” he said. “The gym was in the basement, though. No windows, and when you went up for a dunk shot you nearly brained yourself on the ceiling. Here’s the principal’s office.”

It wasn’t, exactly—it was the secretary’s office and waiting area, a former classroom that still had a blackboard running along one wall. Mottoes, quotes, and aphorisms had been scribbled all over it in different colored chalks. Clare wondered if the sayings were the work of students or teachers.

Russ zeroed in on the round-cheeked woman behind the desk. “I’m—” he began, but she jumped up and said, “Russ Van Alstyne!” before he got any further. “I’m Barb Berube,” she added, bright-eyed and breathless. “Or I am now. I was Barbara McDonald back when we were in high school.”

“Barbara—Barbie McDonald?”

She nodded, sending kinky red curls flying everywhere.

“I wouldn’t have recognized you. You look great.”

“Well, I stopped ironing my hair. That helped.” The smile that started across her wide face stalled. “I am so, so sorry to hear about your wife,” she said in an entirely different tone. “If I can do anything at all, or if you need someone to talk with, please give me a call. I know what it’s like to lose a spouse.”

Russ had stiffened as the secretary spoke; now he stood taut as a wire, his face a blend of pain and alarm. It hadn’t occurred to him, Clare saw, that his private grief was going to be the subject of public comment.

“Are you a widow?” Clare asked, stepping into the lengthening silence.

“No, I’m divorced,” Barb Berube said. She seemed not to have noticed Clare up to that point. “And you are… ?”

Clare unzipped her parka, revealing her clerical blouse and collar. “Clare Fergusson, from St. Alban’s.”

Barb eyed Russ once more. He was still imitating a pillar of salt. She rallied, smiled at Clare, and said, “I’ll just let the principal know you’re here, shall I?”

As soon as she had disappeared through the door into the adjoining office, Russ rounded on Clare. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That… call me to talk thing? If I’ve seen her more’n a half dozen times at the IGA since we graduated, I’d be surprised.”

Clare sighed. “You’re a widower now, Russ.”

He winced.

“You don’t know it, and you’re not ready for it, but you’ve just become a hot commodity to unmarried women of a certain age.”

His look of horror would have made her laugh if it hadn’t been so heartbreaking.

“Russ? And, um, Pastor? Mrs. Rayburn will see you now.” Barb Berube smiled sympathetically at them. Russ gave her a wide berth on his way through the door.

Jean Ann Rayburn, the Millers Kill principal, was rising from her desk to greet them. She was an angular woman, whose flyaway gray hair and fuzzy cardigan fought against a stock-necked silk blouse and straight skirt.

“Russ Van Alstyne,” she said.

“Mrs. Rayburn.”

She shook his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I met your wife a few times over the years since you came home. She was a lovely woman.”

Russ nodded. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Clare Fergusson.” Clare offered her hand, and the principal took it. “I’m the priest at St. Alban’s.”

Jean Ann Rayburn’s eyes glinted with recognition, and Clare wondered what she had heard from the Millers Kill grapevine. But all the older woman said was, “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Fergusson.”

The principal released Clare and clasped her hands in front of her, the sort of habitual gesture that she once must have used to draw the attention of a roomful of high schoolers. “I’m grateful you could come here instead of making the boy go to the police station. He was quite distraught when he spoke to me. He’s very concerned that his parents not find out.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Russ said. “Who is the boy?”

“Quinn Tracey.”

“Meg Tracey’s son?” Russ was genuinely surprised. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. We’ve hired him to plow out our drive a couple times this winter. I can’t think of why he’d be worried about his parents knowing he saw anything. His mother was the one who found—who called in the crime.”

“Let me take you to him, and you can ask him yourself.” Mrs. Rayburn escorted them out of her office. “We’ll be in Mrs. Ovitt’s room,” she said to her secretary, who—Clare looked twice to make sure—had put on a fresh coat of lipstick while they were meeting the principal.

“Suzanne Ovitt is one of our guidance counselors. Wonderful woman. She has a great rapport with teens.” Mrs. Rayburn knocked and opened a door almost hidden between two aging file cabinets. “Mrs. Ovitt? Russ”—she smiled apologetically at him—“I mean, Chief Van Alstyne is here. And Reverend Fergusson, from the Traceys’ church.”

Ugh. Clare decided not to correct her. The guidance counselor’s office was bright and cheerful, decorated with the sort of inspirational posters often found in corporate cafeterias. A row of all-in-one desks lined one end of the room, and the other had been converted into a conversational grouping, with an oversized sofa and several squishy chairs. Like her furniture, the fifty-something Mrs. Ovitt had a look of sturdy service about her, as if she could wipe noses, serve snacks, correct misdeeds, and drill multiplication tables simultaneously, without raising her voice or losing her cool.

She shook their hands and murmured hellos and condolences. Clare stepped to one side to get a better look at the boy huddled on the sofa.

He looked like any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old she might have seen hanging out at All TechTronik or the Aviation Mall. Jeans that were easily two sizes too large, a long-sleeved tee emblazoned with a picture of rapper Fifty Cent, and a middling case of acne that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d be a handsome man once he grew into his nose and ears. But the expression on his face was singular—and disturbing. He was staring at Russ, and he was scared.

“Quinn, this is Chief Van Alstyne,” Mrs. Ovitt said, indicating they should take the chairs. “And you know Reverend Fergusson.” Clare tensed, but the kid barely gave her a twitch as they sat down.

“I know Quinn,” Russ said. He didn’t sound great, exactly, but he did sound warm and nonthreatening. “He’s been doing a good job plowing our drive this winter.” Russ perched on the edge of the chair so he could lean forward. “Quinn, why don’t you tell me what you saw?”

The boy looked down to where he was linking and knotting his knuckles together. “It was a car,” he said.

“In my driveway?”

The boy nodded, still not looking at Russ.

“When was this?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

Clare glanced at Russ.
Was that when…
? He shrugged. “What kind of car was it, Quinn?”

“A 1992 Honda Civic. New York State plates. 6779LF.”

“I’m impressed. Most people don’t remember vehicles with that much precision.”

For the first time, the boy looked up at Russ. “It’s kinda a habit. When I started the plowing job, Dad told me I’d better keep track of any cars in any of the driveways I did, in case somebody made a claim for damage later on. He pays half of my insurance, so he’s, like, always thinking about my liability.”

Russ nodded. “What made you notice this car? Were you out there plowing?”

Which would have been odd, Clare thought, since the last significant snow had been well over a week ago.

“Naw, I do all my plowing right after it snows. Nobody wants to wait.”

“So what were you doing out on Peekskill Road?”

Quinn seemed very unhappy with this question. He twisted his hands and stayed silent.

“Quinn?”

The boy looked at Mrs. Ovitt, who had been sitting quietly, near but not too close. She nodded encouragingly. “I was hanging out with a friend.” Russ opened his mouth, but the boy cut him off. “I don’t want to get him involved, okay?” He dropped his head again. “My parents don’t want me hanging around with him.”

The boy’s reluctance, his fear, all fell into place. Clare didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. A woman was dead, and in Quinn’s mind, his biggest worry was getting grounded.

“Quinn, I can’t promise you this will never get out to your parents, but I can promise you I won’t bring it up unless absolutely necessary. I’m not here to enforce your mom and dad’s rules—although I will point out that when your folks ask you to stay away from someone, they usually have a pretty good reason for doing so.”

Quinn somehow managed to roll his eyes without actually moving any part of his body.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Are you gonna, you know, ask him questions?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

Quinn blew out a breath. “It’s Aaron. Aaron MacEntyre.”

“Was he in your truck with you?”

The boy nodded.

“Did you notice anyone going in or out of the house when you saw the car?”

He shook his head.

“Can you remember what time it was?”

Quinn frowned. He scrunched up his face. “Around four o’clock.”

“So it was getting dark? How did you see the license plates? Was the outside light on?”

“No. I mean, I guess it was before dark. But at the end of the afternoon. Maybe it was closer to three.”

Russ sat silent for a moment. Then for another. He regarded Quinn alertly. He gave no signs of speaking again.

Finally, the boy burst out, “Is that it? Is that all?”

“I don’t know,” Russ said. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Quinn’s eyes grew large. He bit his lip. He shook his head no.

“You sure?”

He nodded.

Russ stood up. “Then we’re done. Thank you for coming forward and telling Mrs. Ovitt and Mrs. Rayburn what you saw. I know it was hard for you. I’m grateful.”

The rest of the adults stood when Russ did. Quinn scrambled to his feet. Standing, his jeans hung low enough around his hips to give everyone a clear view of his boxers. The principal pointed, and he yanked the waistband up. A temporary state of affairs, Clare guessed.

“Quinn, you can join the tail end of your seventh-period class,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “I believe Mrs. Ovitt has a note for your teacher.” The guidance counselor nodded and retrieved a pale yellow slip from the top of her desk. The boy accepted it, stuffing it into one pocket and reexposing his underwear in the process. Before Mrs. Rayburn had another chance to bring him into compliance with the dress code, he mumbled a farewell and vanished through the door.

“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Ovitt commented. “Once he reconciles himself to the fact he’s a small-town white boy instead of an urban black gangbanger, he’ll be fine.”

“Who’s Aaron MacEntyre?” Russ asked. “I recognize the last name, but there are several MacEntyre families in the area.”

“His parents are Craig and Vicki MacEntyre,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “They have a farm in the valley, off Old Route 100.”

“Has Aaron been in trouble?” Clare blurted the question out before she remembered she was going to keep a low profile. “I mean… why would the Traceys forbid their son to see him?”

Mrs. Rayburn looked at Mrs. Ovitt. “As far as I know, Aaron’s never been involved in anything questionable. Have you heard anything, Suzanne?”

The guidance counselor shook her head. “To the contrary. He’s a fairly popular boy. Very self-confident.”

“He’s not a scholar, though,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “He’s bright, but he doesn’t see the use in applying himself. Perhaps the Traceys think that sets a bad example for Quinn.”

“And Aaron is very gung ho about joining the military. His parents and I had to talk him out of dropping out to enlist when he turned eighteen last month.” Mrs. Ovitt and the principal looked at each other with a melancholy understanding. “Not a thing that would endear him to the Traceys.”

“Yes, well… with this war on…” Mrs. Rayburn clasped her hands. “I can’t blame any of our parents for wanting to keep their children away from the recruiting office.” She looked up at Russ. “I hope at least some of this will be helpful, Chief Van Alstyne.”

Clare read one of the posters. Beneath a perfectly lit swimmer powering through the butterfly stroke, it said: IF YOU HAVE A PURPOSE IN WHICH YOU CAN BELIEVE, THERE IS NO END TO THE AMOUNT OF THINGS YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH. Fortune-cookie philosophy. She wondered how it held up in the real world.

Russ nodded. “I hope it will be, too.”

What did you think of Quinn Tracey?”

Clare looked away from the road for a moment. “Of him as a person? Or of what he said?”

“Either. Both.”

She returned her attention to driving. He watched her profile: Roman nose, sharp chin, her hair, by early afternoon, already falling out of its knot. His feelings, about her and for her, were too tangled and painful to contemplate, and he was pathetically grateful to have a mutual puzzle to fall back on. One of the first things that had caught him had been her mind, her easy questions and considered answers.

“I think he was hiding something.”