In the Bleak Midwinter

Clare folded her hands together and pressed them to her lips. She paused. “I believe that prayer focuses our human thoughts and energies, sends them to the people we’re praying for. I believe that helps, in ways we can’t yet understand.” Harlene looked surprised. She had probably expected a quick yes. Followed by an exhortation to the Almighty to keep everyone safe. “I believe that God hears our prayers, and cherishes them. I believe He answers by sending us His spirit, giving us strength, and peace, and insight. I don’t think He responds by turning away bullets and curing cancer. Though sometimes that does happen.”

Harlene frowned. “In other words, sometimes, the answer is no?”

“No. Sometimes the answer is ‘This is life, in all its variety. Make your way through it with grace, and never forget that I love you.’ ”

Harlene creaked back in her wheeled dispatcher’s chair. “You’re not one of those strict fundamentalist preachers, are you?”

Clare laughed. The phone rang. Harlene had it off the hook before the sound died away. “Millers Kill Police,” she said. There was a pause. Her face crinkled up into a huge smile. “Oh, it’s good to hear your voice, too.”

“Is it him?” Clare whispered. “Is he okay? Is the boy all right?”

Harlene nodded. “No, no, he’s absolutely right. You let them handle the arrest and the initial report. You go home!” Another pause. “Then go to your mother’s house. I don’t care. If you show up here, I’ll chase you off myself.” She laughed, then listened for awhile. “Are you really okay? You sound kinda funny.” Harlene glanced over at Clare again. “Hold on, there’s somebody who’s been waiting here to find out how you are. Do you feel like speaking to Reverend Fergusson?” She nodded to the phone and held it out to Clare.

“Hello,” she said, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Hi,” Russ said.

“Remember when you warned me Millers Kill wasn’t a sleepy little town? I believe you now.”

He laughed. “Good.”

“So, it sounds like you’re under strict orders not to come into the office.”

He sighed. “I guess I should go home. Linda’s out of town. And my mother . . . she doesn’t need to hear about this just yet. I’m still . . .” he drifted off.

“I know.”

“You know?” He sounded surprised.

“I know that you’re still . . .” She let her voice trail off, echoing his. “Meet me for a drink somewhere. We can talk.”

“Oh, God. I don’t think I can handle going out in public right now. Besides, I smell like cowshit and the scared-cold sweats.”

“Then tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll come to you.”

“Do you think . . . would my place be okay? I could shower and change, rustle up some burgers or something. Would that be, um, unpriestly or anything?”

She laughed softly. “I think what would be unpriestly would be to let a friend sit at home all alone with no one to talk to. Give me directions and tell me when to be there. Preferably after you no longer smell like cowshit, et cetera.”

He laughed. After she had his address, she handed the phone back to Harlene, who said into it, “You gonna confess your sins to Reverend Fergusson? Make sure she has a few hours.” She listened, snorted at something he said. “Okay. Yes, I will. Yes, I promise. Don’t you trust me? Wait, don’t answer that.” Harlene laughed. “Good. I hope you feel good about this, Chief. You just captured Katie’s killer.” There was a pause. Her smile faded. “Well . . .’Bye then. See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

“What did he say?” Clare asked.

“Said he didn’t know about that. He didn’t know what he had just done.”

CHAPTER 14

When Russ opened the door to her knock, he looked . . . different. It was . . . it was . . . the jeans and a sweater. “You’re in civvies!” she said. “I was beginning to think of you like the sheriff of Mayberry, you know, always dressed in brown poly.”

He laughed. “You obviously didn’t watch enough. He had a plaid shirt and jeans he wore fishing.” He looked over her shoulder. “Where’s your car?”

She grimaced. “I didn’t want to risk getting stuck, so I left it parked at the base of the drive and walked up.”

He moved out of the way and let her enter the mudroom. “In that leather jacket and your oh-so-practical boots, too.” She looked down at her soggy, salt-stained suede half-boots. “Talk about unprepared for the weather. You’re worse than a little kid. I’m gonna get you a pair of mittens with a string attached, so at least your hands will stay warm.”

“I remembered the important stuff,” she said, holding up a six-pack of micro-brewed beer. She dropped it with a thud and bent to remove her boots. “And I could have worn my warm parka. Unfortunately, it actually belongs to the police, and I’m afraid if you see it, you’ll confiscate it.” She handed him her jacket.

“Stolen property.” He hung it up on one of the many hooks running along the wall.

“I prefer to think of it as permanently on loan.”

“Situational ethics.” He opened the door to the kitchen.

“Oh. A wood cooking-stove!” she said. “I always wanted one of those. They’re supposed to be great for baking bread.”