One Was a Soldier (9 page)

“What have you got there?”

“I had one leftover pain pill,” she lied, wondering in the same instant why she was doing so. It wasn’t like what she had was illegal. She’d been given those medications by a flight surgeon. Everybody got them. She pictured showing them to Russ. Pictured him saying,
Clare, what the hell do you need speed and downers for?
Pictured herself surrendering the pills. Her hand closed over the top of her kit. She slid it back into place on the sink. “Help me into the shower?”

After she had washed the stink and the sugar off, Russ wrapped the ice pack around her ankle and bandaged her shoulder. He whistled at the damage the pavement and garbage had wrought. “This looks nasty, darlin’. Let me take you to the hospital. They can give you something to make sure you don’t get an infection.”

“No hospital.”

“Clare.” He breathed through his nose. “Seeking medical attention doesn’t mean you’ll be diagnosed with cancer.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Hmm?” Her sister, Grace, had gone to her doctor one summer day with a stomachache. Four months later she was dead. Colorectal cancer. Virulent. Fast moving.

“I’m not afraid to get treatment,” she lied. “I just don’t want to go now. I promise I’ll get it seen to if I show any signs of infection.” That would be easy. The antibiotics she had brought back with her would kill any bug up to and including flesh-eating bacteria.

He growled but helped her back into her bedroom. The pill was kicking in, and she felt more relaxed and carefree than she had at any time since she’d gotten home. Well. Any time when she wasn’t having sex. She caught Russ’s hands and fell backward onto the bed. He leaned over her, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor. “Take off your clothes,” she said.

He laughed. “That’s mighty ambitious for someone as banged up as you are.”

“Army tough.”

He kissed her lightly. “Sorry, darlin’.” He stood up. “I just started my shift. Besides, my unit is smack-dab in the middle of your driveway. Might as well hang a sign out.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. You’re not in the army now, you’re in Millers Kill. If someone isn’t over at the Kreemy Kakes diner right now talking about how the police chief’s squad car is parked at Reverend Fergusson’s place, I’ll eat my shorts.”

She wobbled into a seated position. “We’re two single adults over the age of consent.” She eyed him. “Well over.”

“Ha. Remember all that stuff about setting an example for your congregation? Sex should be reserved for marriage? Practicing celibacy?”

“That was a hell of a lot easier before we started doing it.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He pulled the covers back and rolled her into bed. “Get some rest. I’ll see if I can stash my truck somewhere and sneak over tonight.”

“Hypocrite,” she said into her pillow.

“It’s called discretion.” He tugged the covers over her. Smoothed her hair away from her face. “I don’t want you to get hurt, love. Not by crazy women at the soup kitchen, not by gossip.”

“Tally.” She tried to keep her thoughts from floating into the smooth cotton darkness. “What did she say?”

Russ made a noise. “Said she was fine. She didn’t feel threatened by either her husband or Chief Nichols.”

“You believe her?”

“I don’t have any reason not to, other than her going to ground for a couple days. She said she just wanted some time alone to think. I had Knox take her home, to get a feel for the situation.”

Her eyes had closed while he was speaking. She felt his lips on her forehead. “Later.”

There was something else … she heard his footsteps headed for the hall. “Eric,” she said.

“I’ll thank him for you.”

No. That’s not it.
Then the narcotic took her and she was gone.

MONDAY, JULY 4

There had been times in the last two years when Hadley Knox had been overwhelmed by the differences between her old life in Los Angeles and her new one in Millers Kill. Controlling traffic for the Independence Day Parade was turning out to be one of them.

She had taken her kids to a parade once in L.A., a spectacle of Disneyland-quality floats, the Golden Bears marching band, and professional dancers twirling flaming batons. In Millers Kill, half the town was marching. DAR ladies in nineteenth-century dresses and VFW men carrying cap lock rifles. A group from St. Alban’s toting their
THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU
banner. The chief’s mother rode past on the Adirondack Conservancy’s Green Future float, and her own kids pedaled by on bikes they had spent all Saturday decorating.

There was the middle school band, and the antique and modern fire trucks, and finally the MKPD cruiser marking the end of the parade. Flynn was driving, one arm hanging out the window in a very nonregulation way, grinning and waving to the children lining the road.

He so young, so ridiculously hopeful and helpful, almost like a kid himself. She flashed on the night they had spent together, his eyes dark, his voice hard, saying,
Once and for all, I’m not a kid.
Her saying,
No. You’re not.

God. She shook her head to clear it. She cleared traffic and drove toward the park, wedging her cruiser into a tow zone on Main.

Wading into the crowd, she spotted the chief right off, his height a reliable beacon. He was walking beat along the grassy edge of the park, scanning from the street-side shops to the gazebo at the center of the green and back again. He stopped to greet someone, then caught sight of her and changed direction. “Knox. Hi. Talk to me.”

“Everything quiet. Traffic is flowing.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“Did I, uh, miss anything?”

“Our assemblyman donated a new flag.” He thumbed toward the flagpole. “Reverend Fergusson”—he looked like he was trying not to smile—“gave a nice invocation.” He thumbed toward the Gothic tower of St. Alban’s. “She’s at your church’s yard sale.”

She stood on tiptoe. Between the lush green foliage of the park’s maples and the holiday crowd, she couldn’t see a thing. “How are we doing?”

“The Presbyterians are beating you all to hell. They’ve got an Italian sausage stand.”

“How’s Reverend Clare?”

“Hurting.” The chief looked exasperated. “I told her she shouldn’t have come. She’s on crutches, for chrissakes. Borrowed from somebody in your congregation, of course, because God forbid she go see a doctor.”

Hadley spotted Anne Vining-Ellis, one of the movers and shakers of St. Alban’s, crossing the road. Her youngest son trailed behind her, all pipe-cleaner legs and bangs in his eyes.

“You should ask Dr. Anne to check her out.”

“Check who out?” The doctor had gotten close enough to hear them.

“Clare. I’m trying to get her to see someone about her ankle. Plus, the back of her shoulder looks awful, like it might be getting infected.”

“I saw the crutches and the ACE bandage, but I didn’t know she had another injury. I’ll make sure to take a look before we go home.”

“Thanks. I swear, she—” The chief stopped, took a breath, and gestured toward Hadley. “Do you know Officer Knox?”

“Of course I do.” She smiled at Hadley. “We just ran into your kids over at the yard sale with your grandfather. Their bikes look amazing.”

“Thanks. They actually did most of the decorating themselves.” Hadley nodded toward Dr. Anne’s boy. “Are you helping out at St. Alban’s?”

“Not this time.” Dr. Anne threw an arm around her son. “Colin’s won the Civic Essay Award. He’s here to get the scholarship check from the mayor.”

Colin Ellis, who had been looking at the crowd while the adults droned on, straightened and pointed. “Mom! It’s Dad and Will.” He grinned. “He decided to come after all. All right. Hey! Will!”

Dr. Anne’s face froze, and suddenly Hadley could see her age around her eyes. Hadley followed the older woman’s gaze to see Mr. Ellis pushing a young man in a wheelchair.

A legless young man in a wheelchair. Whoa. Her stomach squeezed.

“Ah,” the chief said.

The pair came to a stop in front of Dr. Anne. “You’ve met my husband, Chris.” The doctor’s voice was strange, like an imitation of herself. “And this is my son Will. Will, this is Chief Van Alstyne, Reverend Clare’s … friend.”

The chief shook the kid’s hand. “I think Clare told me you had enlisted. What branch?”

“Marines.”

“Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. Where were you serving?”

“Anbar Province.”

The chief nodded. “I’ve heard that’s a hot zone. Heavy casualties.”

“I got out alive. I can’t complain.” Will’s face was clear and open, as if the fact that a third of his body was missing didn’t matter.

The chief smiled a little. “A marine platoon saved my life once in Vietnam. I make it a habit to thank jarheads when I meet them. Thank you.”

Will’s mouth crooked up. “What branch were you in, sir?”

“Army.”

Will smiled broadly. “Are you sure they only saved your life once?” The chief laughed.

“Well. Goodness. We’d better get over to the gazebo.” Dr. Anne’s voice was bright and cheery. “We don’t want Mayor Cameron giving the check away to somebody else.” The Ellis men chorused good-bye, walking—and rolling—away.

“God.” Hadley felt as if she had been holding her breath. “That’s tough. He’s so young.”

“They always are. They’re always too goddamn young.” The squawk on the chief’s radio was a welcome distraction. He keyed his shoulder mike. “Van Alstyne here.”

“Where’n the hell is here?” Static made Deputy Chief MacAuley’s voice crackle. “I been looking all over for you.”

“I’m at the south end of the park, looking at the Rexall.”

“I’m at the gazebo. Walk that way and I’ll meet you. MacAuley out.”

Within moments, Hadley saw the deputy chief’s grizzled buzz cut bobbing toward them. “There you are,” he said, as he came into sight. “They want you up on the stand.”

“So I can stand next to John Opperman and smile? Not a chance.”

“Opperman?” Hadley looked at the wooden pavilion, its spindled railing and octagonal roof draped in red-white-and-blue bunting. “As in BWI Opperman, the biggest employer in the county?” She could see Mayor Cameron, standing with a well-dressed middle-aged man and a woman whose twin set and glasses-on-a-chain said
teacher
or
librarian
. There were also three soldiers in camo: a young woman in a black beret, an even younger-looking man whose head was shaved bald, and an older guy twisting a bucket hat.

The young woman soldier turned, and Hadley saw it was Tally McNabb. The chief frowned. “What’s she doing up there with Dr. Stillman and the Stoners’ boy?”

“They’re all veterans, aren’t they? Jim Cameron’s probably planned some patriotic foolishness and these were the folks he could persuade to get up on the bandstand.” MacAuley gave Hadley a knowing look. “He’s running for reelection this year. Nothing says ‘vote for me’ like supporting the troops.”

“John Opperman’s no damn soldier.”

“Look.” MacAuley sighed. “Opperman’s announcing some new scholarship his company’s putting up for our high schoolers. Cameron’s got to know there’s bad blood between you two—”

“I’ve never discussed Opperman with him.”

“For chrissakes, Russ, you act like you smell dogshit whenever the man’s name comes up. Everybody who knows you knows how you feel. Cameron probably figures this is a good time to pour a little oil on those waters.”

“He’s throwing around money, so I’m supposed to forget what he’s done and play nice?”

“Russ—”

“No.”

“It’s a scholarship. For kids.” MacAuley frowned, his bushy gray eyebrows drawing together like miniature thunderclouds. “I’m not going to argue with you. You want to turn the mayor down, you have to go tell him yourself.”

*   *   *

The chief stalked away, muttering. Hadley frowned. “What was that all about?”

“A whole lot of old business.” MacAuley watched the chief for a few more seconds before turning toward her. “BWI Opperman came to build the new resort a couple years before you moved here. That was when they were just in the hotel trade, before they got into construction and what-all. Anyway, there were three partners in the business at that time, and before the place was completed, two of ’em were dead. The chief’s always been convinced John Opperman was behind it, but he couldn’t prove anything.”

“Huh. Okay.” She couldn’t help sounding doubtful. It didn’t seem very professional. Keeping an eye on someone you suspected, sure, but not acting like he burned down your house and shot your dog.

MacAuley gave her one of his deceptively lazy looks. “You’re thinking that’s not enough for him to be carrying on like this, right?”

She shrugged.

“Yeah. There’s more to it. Right before she died, Linda—his late wife—spent a week at Mr. Opperman’s private retreat in the Caribbean.”

Hadley’s mouth opened.

“She didn’t have a romance going with Opperman or anything. She worked for him, making all the fancy curtains and frilly bits for the hotel. It was just a getaway.” MacAuley’s denial was so firm Hadley figured Opperman and the late Mrs. Van Alstyne must have been going at it like crazed rabbits from dusk to dawn. “But it stuck hard in the chief’s craw. You know the intersection where her car wrecked?”

“Yeah. Eric pointed it out to me back when I was a rookie.”

MacAuley gave her a look that said,
You’re still a rookie, girlie.
“She was driving there because John Opperman dropped her off at the resort after the trip. He was one of the last people to see Linda Van Alstyne alive.” He pointed at the pavilion. “Huh. Looks like the mayor got him up there after all.” The chief was standing behind the soldiers, talking to the teen, turned away from the rest of the people on the stage. “Lotta folks around here owe their jobs to Opperman.” MacAuley tapped his nose. “Jim Cameron can smell which way the wind’s coming in.”

Small-town politics was definitely on her list of things to avoid. “Do you want me to walk the loop, Dep?” Every merchant along the street circling the park had a sidewalk display set up, an open invitation to snatch and run. “Patrol the shops?”