The Saint (2 page)

“Claire,” the policeman said. His face was gray, and, unless she was imagining it, his voice shook. “Claire, don't go up there.”

She tilted her head, confused. “I wasn't going to,” she said. “Why? What's going on?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Doug Metzler was still frozen in place. A few others had joined him. They were all staring at Claire. Something sick and liquid began to boil in her stomach, like the beginnings of an internal earthquake.

“What's going on?” She gripped the door, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking just like Officer Johnson's voice. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the line of cars. Was that a blue flashing light? Was that larger vehicle an ambulance?

She looked back at the young policeman.
“What's going on?”

“It's Steve,” Officer Johnson said, and this time his voice did break. “Claire. It's…it's Steve.”

No.
No.
That was ridiculous. This had nothing to do with Steve. Steve was at football practice, tossing that little brown ball high into the blue morning air for some other teenage boy to catch. Yes, Steve was safe at football practice, boyish and muddy and sweaty.

And happy. Steve was always happy.

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” the policeman said. “You see he… Steve…”

Claire felt her mind going limp, balking like a child, refusing to be led to whatever terrible place he was trying to take her. Bill Johnson was so young,
she thought. Just a kid. What did he know? He was no more than four years older than Steve himself.

He tried again. “It… Steve must have been going very… It was an accident, a terrible accident.”

She frowned. Look at him, he was close to tears. He looked so distressed, so completely undone. She wondered if she should put her arm around him. But she discovered to her horror that she couldn't move her arm. How odd. It was like sleepwalking. She couldn't feel any part of her body.

And when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. Hollow and slow, like something recorded at the wrong speed. “What do you mean an accident? What do you mean it's Steve?”

“I guess it was just too dark.” Officer Johnson's face was suddenly running with tears that gleamed in the rising sun. “I guess he was going too fast. I'm sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry. I guess he hit a tree.”

“Hit a—”

But the legs she couldn't feel decided right then to fold up under her like wet paper. She slid down, still holding on to the open car door. The muddy ground was cool and dark as she met it.

She lost track of time, just a little, like a clock with an unreliable battery. When her heart began to tick again, she was surprised to hear Kieran McClintock's voice, very close to her.

“Claire,” he said. “Claire, are you all right?”

She realized she was in his arms. She looked up at him.

“He said Steve had an accident,” she whispered, as if she needed to keep the news a secret. As if making the information public would make it true. “Can you take me to him? I'm not sure I can walk, but I have to get there. Steve needs me.”

Kieran's face worried her. Anguish was written all over his handsome features, turning his clear blue eyes to hot, shadowed volcano beds. Turning his rugged jaw to jagged steel, his full, wide mouth to a razor line of bloodless white.

“Claire, sweetheart, Steve never made it to practice. He had an accident.”

Strange, she thought, that a mouth so fierce, so twisted with pain, could speak in such gentle tones. His arms tightened around her. “It was very bad. He didn't make it, Claire. He's gone.”

“Gone?”

He shut his eyes, and it was a relief not to have to look into their tortured depths.

“Yes, he said. “I'm so sorry, Claire. Steve's dead.”

Dead…

Not playing football, not laughing, not running, not even breathing.

Dead.

She shut her eyes, too, as the knife blade of the word sank deep into her chest. She felt her heart's blood gush everywhere, she tasted the metallic hot ice of the cruel steel, and then, thank God, the terrible black universe began to disappear again.

My little brother is dead.

She wasn't sure whether she spoke that sentence or merely thought it. But she heard herself say the next one.

And you killed him.

Two years later

K
IERAN
M
C
C
LINTOCK RUBBED
the stinging red spot just above his swim trunks where the latest water balloon had landed and wondered if his reflexes might be getting a little slow. That made eight hits already, and it wasn't even noon. He couldn't seem to duck, dodge or jump out of the way fast enough.

The darn things hurt, too. High-school boys really threw some heat these days. He scowled at the one who had just nailed him in the gut.

“Ingrate,” he called as the boy chuckled and scooted away.

“Golly, Coach, I'll bet that smarts.” Suddenly a female voice purred in his ear, and a soft female hand rested over his. “Need any help with that?”

“Hi, Linda.” Kieran didn't need to look up to know whose hand it was. No one but Linda Tremel would dream of rubbing the football coach's wet, naked stomach in public. He moved her fingers away. “Thanks, but I'll live.”

Linda pouted, but otherwise she took the rejection in stride. She was quite used to being rejected by Kieran—she was his neighbor. Since her divorce, she'd been programmed to bait her hooks automati
cally whenever she saw any man. She didn't really expect him to bite.

She adjusted her large straw sun hat to a prettier angle and surveyed the chaos in front of them, where Heyday High's annual Junior-Senior Send-off was in full swing. About a hundred students and their families were slip-sliding on water toys, hobbling in three-legged races and gnawing on cold fried chicken legs and deviled eggs.

She sighed and fanned herself with her paper napkin. Summer had come in swinging this year. The temperature was already in the nineties.

“I'd take off my cover-up, but I'm not sure these hormonal young boys could control themselves,” she said. “It's bad enough that you've got every female under fifty salivating over your six-pack, stud. Think you should toss a shirt on and put them out of their misery?”

Kieran didn't respond. Linda always talked like that. In fact, she never talked about anything but sex. Kieran suspected that might mean she wasn't really all that interested in it. Protesting too much, as they said.

Besides, he saw a couple of his best players huddled over by the ice chest, and he could imagine what they were plotting. The next water balloon was probably going to be filled with Gatorade. He could only hope they had one of the other teachers in mind for this one.

All the faculty, right up to the principal, were here today. Even the school volunteers had showed up—like Linda. The Send-off was the highlight of the school year. Each May, just before the start of final exams, the junior class hosted a water party for the
outgoing seniors. It had been a Heyday tradition for at least fifty years.

Heyday was big on tradition. Kieran's father, who had, until his death less than two months ago, owned most of Heyday, had always said that tradition was what the little town had instead of culture, prominence, wealth or wisdom.

“So, I hear you've got another superstar coming along next season, Coach. You know the one.” Linda tilted her head. “What's his name? Nice muscles. Bedroom eyes.”

“Bedroom eyes?” Kieran looked at her. “I have no idea who you're talking about, but you'd better watch it, Linda. These boys are underage.”

“Well, he does have sexy eyes.” She grinned from under the wide brim of her hat. “I can't help noticing, can I? Oh, what is his name? The boy everyone is saying could be the new Steve Strickland. Eddie-something.”

“Eddie Mackey?” Kieran wondered where Linda had heard about Eddie. “He's good, but he's not on the team yet. He's not sure he wants to play.”

“Oh, you can talk him into it. You can talk anybody into anything. Steve Strickland didn't want to play at first, either, and look how good he turned out to be.”

Kieran tossed his empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin. “Of course Steve wanted to play,” he said. He hoped he didn't sound defensive. “Where did you hear that he didn't want to play?”

“I don't remember…” Linda chewed on her lower lip. “Oh, that's right. It was his sister who didn't want him to play. That's what I heard. They say Claire hated the idea of Steve playing football. I
never understood why. Was she afraid he'd get hurt or something?”

That was stupid, even for Linda. Instantly, she realized her mistake and drew in a deep breath. “I mean—you know. In a game. Like getting tackled or something. Naturally, no one could have imagined he'd end up—”

“No.” Kieran popped open another drink and downed half of it in one gulp. It really was hot out here. “No one could have imagined that.”

“Where is she now, do you know?”

Kieran squinted into the sunlight, trying to see if the people barbecuing hot dogs needed any help. “Who?”

“Claire. Do you know if she's still in Richmond?”

“No.”

Linda flicked him with her napkin. “Be specific,” she said. “Do you mean no, she's not in Richmond, or no, you don't know?”

“No, I don't know.”

“You haven't seen her since—”

“No.”

“Do you think she's still angry? Do you think she still blames you for—”

“I don't know.”

“I'll bet she doesn't.” Linda unbuttoned her top two buttons, exposing as much cleavage as possible, and began fanning herself again. “I mean, how could she? It didn't make any sense to start with. I mean, you didn't force the kid to drive seventy miles an hour down Poplar Hill, did you?”

“No, I didn't.”

According to Claire, though, that was just a cop-
out. He had put too much pressure on the players, she'd said, her voice filled with tears and fury. He had expected them to do the impossible, and, because they had loved him, they'd tried to deliver.

At least that's what she told him the night she called and asked him not to come to the funeral.

“See? You didn't have a thing to do with it. Claire Strickland just went a little crazy, that's all. She wasn't thinking straight, and she needed someone to blame.”

Kieran did not want to have this conversation. Especially not with Linda Tremel, who didn't have an ounce of imagination. She could never understand how, when Kieran had held Claire in his arms and told her Steve was dead, it had been like holding a ghost. She had seemed completely empty, as insubstantial as smoke. He had thought, for a minute, that she might just float away forever.

He scanned the crowd, desperately seeking a savior. But being with Linda Tremel was like acquiring leprosy—even your best friends wouldn't venture near enough to save you.

Finally he caught Principal Winston Vogler's eye. The elderly man was too softhearted to resist a plea for help. Kieran felt a little guilty as Winston came over, smiling politely at Linda. But only a little.

“Hey there, Ms. Tremel. Howdy, Coach.” Principal Vogler patted Kieran on the back and gave Linda a kiss on the cheek. “It's a terrific day for the Send-off, don't you think? The weather always cooperates with Heyday High.”

Linda opened another button. Winston was almost seventy years old—he'd been a contemporary of Kie
ran's father—but he was a male, and that apparently was Linda's only requirement.

“Well,” she drawled, borrowing Kieran's Gatorade and rubbing its cool plastic sides against her collarbone, “it's pretty hot.”

Kieran couldn't help cringing for her. She hadn't been like this before Austin Tremel divorced her last year. Back when she had first landed Austin, the rich boy from the right side of the tracks who was supposed to make all her dreams come true, she had spent every moment trying to be worthy of him. Trying to remake herself into the perfect lawyer's wife.

It must have hurt pretty bad when he dumped her. She'd spent the past year trying to prove to herself that she was desirable. Austin had a new lover—had probably acquired her long before the divorce—so Linda obviously wasn't going to be happy until she had one, as well. Or two, or three. However many it took to show Austin she didn't miss him.

Winston was watching the three-legged zebra race, which involved bags painted with black and white stripes. “Do you think,” he asked suddenly, “that any of these kids even know why they're called the Fighting Zebras at Heyday High?”

“Heck, no,” Linda said.

Kieran knew that was probably true. Many of Heyday's younger citizens had no idea that the city got its name because a trainer for a little nomadic circus got drunk one night and left the animal cages unlocked.

They didn't know about the zebras, which, once having escaped, had eluded capture for days, then weeks…and then forever. Long after the monkeys and the lion had been recovered, long after the circus
owner had decided to cut his losses and move on, the clever zebras remained at large.

For months, people reported sightings of zebras galloping in the woods, zebras strolling in the park, zebras grazing along the highway. But the two animals danced in and out, taunting their would-be captors, and eventually the fairy tale of freedom caught the public eye.

Newspapers as far away as D.C. wrote stories. “Zebras Have a Heyday,” the first story proclaimed. And the little town of Moresville, tired of being “Boresville,” saw its chance to reinvent itself. On the Fourth of July, nineteen hundred and three, the mayor had gleefully knocked down his gavel on a five-to-one vote, and Heyday was born.

Every Fourth of July since, the city had sponsored its Ringmaster Parade. Most people didn't ask why. They merely accepted that the city would elect a Ringmaster and Ringmistress, just as they accepted that the Big Top Diner had a roof like a circus tent, and that the bartenders at the Black and White Lounge wore striped tuxedos topped with zebra ears on a headband and springs.

“So.” Winston shifted from one foot to the other and was apparently having trouble deciding where to look. Linda Tremel's rather large chest seemed to take up too much of his field of vision. “So, Kieran, what time do you head for Richmond in the morning?”

Oh, hell.

Kieran could feel the curiosity emanating from Linda. But what could he do? If he told the truth, that he was going to spend the weekend in Richmond, she'd be giddy with speculation. If he evaded or lied, it would look suspicious.

And it wasn't suspicious. That he should be heading for a conference in the city where Claire Strickland now lived was a minor coincidence, yes. But Richmond was a big city. Probably two thousand people went there every day without running into Claire Strickland, either deliberately or accidentally. He'd just be number two thousand and one.

“Actually, I'm leaving tonight,” he said as blandly as possible. “The conference starts early in the morning.”

“You're going to Richmond?” Linda had begun to smile.
“Richmond?”

“Yes,” he said. “I'm speaking at a coaching conference. I'll just be there overnight.”

“Are you planning to—”

“No.”

She chuckled. “You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I do. And the answer is no. It's purely a working trip. I won't be making any social calls while I'm in town.”

Winston looked confused. “But you'll have the evening free, Kieran,” he said. “You know that time's your own to do whatever you want. Social calls are fine.”

Kieran laughed. This was becoming the conversational equivalent of gum on your shoe. “Linda's joking, Win. I don't want to make any social calls.”

Linda grinned. “Yes, but if you do—”

“I won't.”

“Okay, fine. But if you
do.
” She winked at him. “Give her a kiss for me. Anything beyond a kiss, well, then you're on your—”

Kieran groaned and turned away, which meant he was in the perfect position to glimpse the incoming missile just in the nick of time.

He called out the standard warning. “Heads up!”

Winston, who was seasoned in the ways of mischievous high-school boys, sidestepped instantly. Unfortunately, Linda, who wasn't, stood there looking confused.

“What—?” She frowned.

A pop, a splat, a splash. And suddenly her lacy white cover-up was splattered from neck to knee with sticky orange liquid. She looked down, horrified.

Somehow Kieran managed not to laugh. He didn't even smile. He actually tried to feel sympathetic. He didn't allow himself to believe it had been fate, intervening to spare him any more of Linda's lip-licking curiosity.

But it had been a lucky shot, hadn't it?

Principal Vogler, on the other hand, was furious. A courtly man himself, he obviously found pegging a woman with a water balloon to be an outrage. He reached out and snagged the nearest teenage boy, a kid with dark hair and deep blue eyes. “Bedroom” eyes, in fact.

“Come here, young man,” Winston bellowed.

He didn't wait for the poor kid to say a word. He dragged him by the collar and forced him to face Linda.

“Ms. Tremel, this is Mr. Eddie Mackey. I believe he has something he'd like to say to you.”

 

T
HERE MUST BE A LINE
from
Hamlet
for a moment like this. Claire studied her sedate navy-and-white
spectator pumps and considered the issue. How about the one that said a person could “smile and smile and be a villain?”

It seemed apt enough. Mrs. Gillian Straine, the principal of the Haversham Girls' Academy, never stopped smiling. It was how she wooed the best parents, the best girls, the best alums, the best college recruiters. But after almost two years teaching seventh grade here at HGA, Claire had learned how sharp the steel was that lay behind that smile.

Today the metal was in full, lethal force as Mrs. Straine sat at her huge mahogany desk, in her magnificent wood-paneled office, and read a letter of complaint that had just arrived. The letter stated that Miss Claire Strickland was teaching the girls from texts of questionable morality.