Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (2 page)

Clare switched on her mic. “Three/first, our ETA is in five. Hang on.”

She dropped the nose another five degrees. Checked the yaw to make sure she wasn’t overcompensating. Then flew on, over flat, hard-baked desert and over coffee brown, irrigated fields, and over narrow canals and cement villages, but the slowly rising smoke never got any closer. Clare could feel her heart pounding in rhythm with the rotors. “We need more speed!”

“Roger that.” Beside her, her copilot switched on the remaining fuel tank and increased the oxygen mix.

“Bravo five-two-five, this is three/first. We’ve got people bleeding out here. For chrissakes, hurry it up.”

Fear turned and kicked in her belly. Clare gasped, sucked in air, tried to control her panicked breathing. “We’ll be there, three/first. Hang on.” The yoke grew slippery in her hands, and her feet felt like lead ingots on the pedals. More desert, more fields, more canals, more villages, and the smoke always ahead, always in sight, always out of reach.

“Help us, Bravo five-two-five. For God’s sake, help us!”

“I’m trying!” She blinked away tears of frustration and rage. “I’m trying!”

Her copilot shook her arm. She took her eyes away from the dirty, drifting column to look at him. It was Russ. “Clare, wake up,” he said. “Wake up, love, wake up.”

She rolled toward him, bringing the sheets and blankets with her, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short pants. “Oh, God.” Over his shoulder, she could see the clock glowing. 2:00
A.M.

Russ pulled her close, rubbing her back with a firm hand. “What was it this time?”

She took a deep breath. “I was flying a medevac. People were dying, they were calling and calling on the radio, but no matter how fast I flew, I couldn’t reach them.” She shivered.

“Can I help?” He chafed her arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m supposed to.” The PTSD counselor she was seeing encouraged her to share each bad memory out loud in order to lessen their power. Like the ancient Hebrews, who knew that to name God was to in some way control Him.

But dammit, Russ was her husband, not her therapist. She laid a hand on his cheek, rough and in need of a razor. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Hey, I have bad dreams about helicopters, too.”

She made a noise. “Vietnam-era Hueys.
My
nightmare helicopters are much cooler than yours.”

In the darkness, she could hear him smile. “No doubt.” He slid his hand down her arm, onto her hip. She scooted closer.

“Maybe there is something you can help with.”

“Mmn? And what’s that?” He shifted so his leg was beneath the curve of her belly, his knee pressing between her thighs.

“I have a hard time relaxing. So I can fall back asleep.” One by one, she undid the buttons of her flannel nightgown.

“Do you, now?” In his voice, she could hear both amusement and heat. She gasped as his hand closed over her breast. He murmured something deep-throated and inarticulate as he bent his head to her.

From the bedside table, his phone rang. Russ cursed, sighed, then swung away from her, grabbing the phone and curling upward in one smooth movement. As the Millers Kill chief of police, he had long experience with middle-of-the-night calls. “Van Alstyne here.” There was a long pause. “Oh, hell. Yeah. Okay.” He snapped on the lamp. “Give me the address.” He jotted something down on a notepad. Then he looked at her. “Yeah, she’s here.” His eyebrows rose. He handed her the phone. “John Huggins. He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” She wrestled herself into a sitting position. “Is it a missing person?” Huggins, the head of the volunteer Fire Department, had taken her on as a searcher a couple of times, but Clare knew she was at the bottom of his roster. She couldn’t imagine he’d want her now. Maybe he didn’t know. “Hello?”

“Fergusson? You’re still a reverend, right? I mean, you didn’t have to quit or anything, now you’re hooked up with the chief?”

She rubbed her face. “Episcopal priests can get married, John.” She watched Russ haul his heavy winter uniform out of the closet.

“Good. Good. I got a favor to ask. We’re on a fire call, and it’s a bad one. The folks who lived here didn’t make it out.”

“Oh, no.”

“A lot of my guys never worked a fatality before. They’re kind of shook up. I was wondering if you could maybe be out here, you know, to talk to any of the guys who need some bucking up.”

She slid out of bed, shivering again as her feet hit the cold floor. “Of course. I can hitch a ride with Russ.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I figured since you were going to get woke up anyway, I’d ask you instead of Dr. McFeely or Reverend Inman. See you over here.” He hung up.

Russ tugged his thermal shirt over his head. “What was that?”

She handed him back his phone. “Evidently, we’re now a twofer.” She picked up yesterday’s clerical blouse from where she’d tossed it. “Huggins asked if I could go over with you and make myself available to anyone who needs to talk.”

Russ paused from buttoning his insulated pants. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“He said it’s the first fatal fire for some of the volunteers. If I can help, I will.” She tossed a bra and long johns onto the bed.

“I meant—you need your sleep. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to be standing around all night in minus-ten-degree weather when you’re … you’re…”

She pulled her voluminous flannel nightgown over her head, displaying her abdomen, in all its well-rounded, five-and-a-half-months glory. “Pregnant is the word you’re searching for. Expecting. With child. In a family way.”

His face tightened. He turned back to the closet and lifted his gun locker from the shelf. “Fine. If you’re okay with it, I’m okay. Dress warmly.”

“Dress warmly,” she muttered, wiggling into her underwear and long johns. She felt plenty warm already, from the small hot flame of anger that had ignited in her gut. “Knocked up,” she said to his back. “A bun in the oven. Enceinte. Preggers.”

He whirled toward her, startling her. “Are you trying to start a fight?”

Yes.
At least a fight would clear the air. “I just want you to be able to talk about it. We never talk about it.”

“We’re having a kid. What is there to talk about?” He picked up his glasses and put them on. “I’ll make us some coffee to go. Hurry up.” He headed downstairs.

“Decaf for me,” she yelled after him. God, how she hated decaf. She layered a heavy wool sweater over her clericals before buttoning on her collar. She fastened her silver cross around her neck and held it tightly in one hand. She closed her eyes and tried to let her anger float away with her breath.
Dear God, please help me to be more understanding of my husband, who’s being a monumental jerk—
She started again.
Dear God, please help me to break through my husband’s stubbornness—
No. She released the cross and pressed her hands against her abdomen. She knew what the right prayer was. “Dear God,” she said, “please help me.”

3.

Huggins had said the fire was a bad one, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. Standing shin-deep in the churned-up snow near the fire chief’s vehicle, Russ could feel the heat in waves across his face despite the single-digit temperatures. The MacAllen place was—or had been—an old farmhouse, set uphill and across the road from its barn. The land on either side had probably been cleared in the distant past, but it had been allowed to run wild, so that the blazing structure was boxed in on both sides by trees and brush.

“We’re concentrating on keeping it contained at this point.” Huggins had left his oxygen mask dangling beneath his chin, but otherwise was fully suited in his turnout. He pointed to where teams of men were hosing down the foliage on either side of the house. Russ could swear he saw the arcing water freeze as it touched the spindly black branches outlined against the moon-bright sky. “If it gets past us, these woods could carry it to the neighbors’ farther on down the hill.”

Russ nodded. “Any idea how it started?”

“Smoking in bed? Faulty kerosene heater? You know how it is, this time of year.”

“Oh, yeah.” Winter was always the worst. Christmas lights in overloaded sockets on tinder-dry trees. Candles left burning in empty rooms. This January, with the extreme cold they’d been having, people were lighting fires in unused hearths and running badly wired space heaters next to oil cans in the garage.

“I’ll tell you one thing.” Huggins squinted at the structure, as if he could see inside the blackened timber and blinding flame. “This bastard’s spreading a lot faster than your usual house fire. Look at how the fire’s boxed the place, both floors, corner to corner.”

“You thinking an accelerant?”

Huggins made a noise. “Maybe. I’m no expert, but if we can save enough of her, I might be able to tell.”

“You’re sure the MacAllens were inside?”

“Are they on your snowbird list?”

The Millers Kill Police Department kept a record of residents who fled to milder climates until spring. Their homes were checked out regularly during patrol; Russ had found fully furnished, empty houses were a magnet for trouble. “I don’t remember ever seeing their names.”

“Well, there you go. Their cars were in the drive.” Huggins pointed again. “We had to tow ’em back out of the way.”

Between the ladder and the pump trucks crowding the driveway, Russ could glimpse a couple of vehicles wedged into the snow. Beyond them, the EMTs had erected a rest station out of the back of the ambulance, a half-open tent containing a few camp stools and a sports keg of water. They must have had heaters, because Clare, talking to one of the firefighters, had shed her parka. “Anybody else who might have been in the house?”

“Not that we know of. One of my guys says they were an older retired couple. If they had any kids, they were long gone.”

Clare turned as the firefighter strapped his helmet back on.

“Huh,” Huggins said. “She’s, uh…”

“Pregnant. I don’t suppose your guy has any contact names? Closest relatives?”

“Nope. That’s up to your people.” Huggins was still staring as Clare shouldered on her parka and walked the firefighter out of the tent and through the snow bordering the drive. “They can do that? Protestant ministers?”

“If they’re women they can. Did you see anything else that made you think the fire might have been deliberately set?”

“Nothing offhand. I’ll be able to tell you more tomorrow.” He finally tore his gaze from Clare and looked at Russ. “So you’re gonna be a dad.” He whacked Russ’s arm. “Better you ’n me. I have a hard enough time keeping up with my grandkids, and we get to give ’em back at the end of the afternoon. If Debbie told me we were having another kid, I’d shoot myself. Of course, she’s already gone through the change, so we don’t have to worry about that.” He gave Russ another whack for good measure. “Guess that’s the downside of those younger women, huh?”

“I guess so.” This wasn’t the first ribbing he had taken about becoming a father at his age. Clare didn’t get it. Sure, she had to deal with telling her congregation and the bishop, but people were excited for her. They congratulated her. But him? It was an ongoing joke. The old guy who couldn’t keep his hands off his young wife. Looking forward to a baby when his peers were looking forward to retirement.

He watched as the man Clare had been talking to tapped out one of the guys on the pumper. The newly relieved firefighter raised his hand in greeting as he climbed down, but didn’t seem inclined to talk to a priest. Instead, he pointed to the far side of the rig. Clare vanished around the nose of the truck.

A wrenching wooden groan drew Russ’s attention away from his wife.

Huggins switched on his radio. “The roof’s gonna go. Everybody back. Everybody back.” The teams staggered away from the farmhouse, clumsy with the snow and their water-whipped hoses. With a roar, the roof collapsed inward, sending sparks and gouts of flame high into the frosty air. Huggins shook his head. “I take back what I said about telling you tomorrow. It’ll be a miracle if there’s enough left for us to make out how this monster started. We may need to call in one of the state investigators if we want to rule out arson.”

“I’ll do a rundown on the MacAllens from my end.” The noise from the fire and the water was louder now, and Russ almost had to shout to be heard. “See if there’s anything that raises a red flag.”

Clare emerged from the far side of the pump truck and headed toward them, a big, broad-chested dog walking beside her.

“How ’bout that,” Huggins said. “She got the mutt to come with her.” He looked at Russ. “The dog was in the front yard when we got here. Ran off when we towed the cars and wouldn’t let any of us get near it.”

The dog stopped several yards away and dropped to the snow. Clare bent down, scratching its head and ruffling its fur until it rolled over and allowed her to rub its belly. She stood up and slapped her thigh. “Come on, Oscar. That’s a good dog.”

Oscar obediently rose and accompanied her. As they waded through the snow toward Russ and Huggins, the dog whined and trembled.

Clare stopped a few feet from them. “I think he’s a little shy with men.” She dug her fingers into the dog’s fur.

Russ got down on one knee in the snow. “Hey, boy.” He held out his hand. Oscar sniffed toward him but wouldn’t leave Clare’s side. Russ looked up toward Clare. “Did you get his name off his tags?”

She nodded. “And his address. Fifty-two Crandell Hill Road.”

“That’s the MacAllens’,” Huggins said. “Looks like we’ll have to get PJ over here.” PJ Adams was the Millers Kill animal control officer.

Clare made a sound of protest.

Russ braced a hand on his knee and pushed himself back up. “How did he get out of the house?”

Huggins shrugged. “Must’ve been kept outside.”

“Did you see a doghouse? Any other outbuildings?”

“Just the barn.”

Russ looked across the road. In the bright bands of moonlight, he could see the barn’s double doors shut up tight. “Maybe.” He could hear the doubt in his own voice.

“So they left him out for the night,” Huggins said.

“Not in this weather.” Clare thumped the dog’s side. “Look at him. His coat’s thick enough to keep him comfortable for a while, but he’s still a short-hair. He’s cold right now.”