I Shall Not Want (32 page)

Oh, yeah?

“—but these things do
happen
to you, Clare, and it’s because you simply don’t
think
before you act.”

Clare opened her mouth to argue, then thought of the dance. Russ, and the music, and the warm night air, and the words.
Walk me back to the rectory
. She hadn’t exactly been thinking then, had she?

“Clare.” Elizabeth sat down opposite her. “I’m not here to
be
right. I’m here to help you get it right.” She patted Clare’s hand. “Don’t look so glum. I know you’re trying to keep your promise to the bishop. He’s not going to blame you for this bit of nastiness.” She stood up and faced the kitchen, hands on hips. “Now, let’s tackle this—”

The door swung open. “Clare?” Anne Vining-Ellis tumbled in. “Oh, thank God, you’re okay. Mrs. Marshall just called me and told me what happened.” Clare stood to greet her and was almost knocked down by a bear hug. “Elizabeth, are you taking her home?”

The deacon looked surprised. “Well… no. I’m here to help put the rectory to rights.”

“What, tonight? To hell with cleaning up. Clare, go get your pj’s and a change of clothing. You’re coming to my place.” Dr. Anne sounded every inch the emergency room physician, snapping out orders and making split-second decisions.

Clare hadn’t thought of leaving, hadn’t been thinking of anything except putting the pieces of her life back together, but the idea, the freedom of simply walking away for a while, stunned her. “Really?” Then she remembered. “I can’t. After morning Eucharist tomorrow, I’ve got to go down to Fort Dix for National Guard training. I won’t be back until Tuesday evening, and I can’t stand the idea of coming back to this disaster.”

“You won’t. Karen Burns is already organizing a crew to take care of everything tomorrow. Tonight, you’re going to come home to where my large and thuggish sons can protect you, put your feet up, and have a good stiff drink. I’m sure Elizabeth will take tomorrow morning’s service for you.”

“Well.” Elizabeth looked doubtful. “It’d have to be Morning Prayer instead of Morning Eucharist—”

“Perfect. It’s settled, then. Elizabeth”—Dr. Anne slung her arm over the deacon’s shoulders—“however in the world did we get along before you came to St. Alban’s?”

It took Clare five minutes to throw her things into a duffel and get back downstairs. In that time, Dr. Anne had gotten Elizabeth de Groot back into her windbreaker and was easing her out the door, slathering the deacon with comfort and praise and appreciation like it was so much melted butter. “Night-night, Elizabeth,” Dr. Anne called out the kitchen door. “See you tomorrow!” She shut the door. Turned toward Clare.

“Thank you,” Clare said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Lacey Marshall told me she was headed for your house. I figured I’d better get over as fast as I could to prevent the murder-suicide.”

Clare laughed shakily.

“C’mon. I meant it about the drink.” She opened the door again. “I heard Russ Van Alstyne was practically necking with you at the dance tonight, and I want all the juicy details.”

Kevin started to worry when he heard the dogs.

It had been exciting, getting the call from the deputy chief, everybody pulled back on duty, digging the tac vests out of the trunk of his squad car. He was sorry Reverend Fergusson had been upset and that her place was trashed, of course he was, but—tac vests! The chief had commandeered both his cruiser and the second vest, and, with Kevin riding shotgun and MacAuley and Noble right behind, headed out to the Christie farm in Cossayuharie.

In daylight, they could see the place from Seven Mile Road, but to reach it they had to go across a narrow side road and then up a rutted dirt lane. A gate barred the way, a metal pole-crosspole fastened to a sturdy-looking fence that ran off into the darkness in either direction.

“What’s that for?” the chief asked.

“They raise sheep,” Kevin reminded him.

“And they roam all the way down here? Huh. Open that thing for me, Kevin.”

He sprang out of the car. And that’s when things started to go to hell. He had taken one step toward the gate when two pole-mounted motion-sensor lights blazed on, flooding the lane and its surroundings, spotlighting him like a Friday-night quarterback.

Then he heard the dogs; a full-throated baying, as if a pack of hellhounds had been set loose up by the house.

And they were headed for him.

“Kevin,” the chief shouted, but he didn’t wait to be ordered back into the car. He pounded toward the latch, popped it free, and pushed the top rail as hard as he could. It fetched up against something, jarring his arms, making him stumble back.

The chief was yelling something over the din of the approaching dogs. “… rolls to the right!” Kevin made out. “It rolls!”

He pulled the heavy gate open just far enough to wedge himself between the fence and the crossbar, and pushed. The gate rolled. He ran with it, pushing, the dogs getting closer and closer, visible now at the edge of the light, black and tan and white pointed teeth, and the chief gunned the cruiser and jerked it forward and the passenger door bounced closed and then it was open again, the chief stretched across the seats, screaming, “Get in! Get in!”

Kevin made a flying leap past the seething whipcord bodies and snarling jaws and landed inside the car. He and the chief scrambled for the handle, yanking it shut as one, two, three German shepherds thudded against the metal and glass, howling and barking and snapping their teeth. He let out the breath he’d been holding.
In like Flynn
.

“Jesus, Kevin.” The chief sounded like he had been the one running out there. “Don’t do that to me again. I thought you were puppy chow.” He unhooked the mic and tuned the radio for car-to-car. “Lyle?”

“Here.”

“No chance of sneaking up on ‘em. May as well go in with lights.” Behind them, MacAuley’s cruiser blinked into whirling red and white.

“Awful lot of security for humble sheep farmers.” MacAuley’s voice over the radio was laconic.

The chief triggered the mic. “The Christies are sheep farmers the way trucking agents in New Jersey are legitimate businessmen. When we reach the dooryard, go as far around the side of the barn as you can. I don’t want anybody slipping away through the back forty.”

“Will do. Over.”

The chief threw the car into gear and rolled forward. The German shepherds paced them, too smart to charge a moving vehicle, too focused to let them pull away.

As they reached the dooryard, another two motion sensor lights came on, one over the front porch, the other up on the barn. The two buildings were set kitty-corner to each other, with the dirt lane looping past each and rejoining itself. The house, from what Kevin could see, looked as if every generation of Christies had made one addition or another, until the most recent: a trailer on blocks at the far side of the yard, electrical wires running between it and the main house. The trailer was dark, but a handful of windows in the house were lit.

The chief cracked his door open. Instantly, the dogs surged forward, growling and baring their teeth. He slammed it shut again, swearing. He grabbed the mic and switched the speakers to outside broadcast. “This is the Millers Kill Police.” The chief’s words, amplified, echoed back from the house and barn. “We need to ask you a few questions. Call back your dogs and restrain them.” The echo caused a feedback, and the chief’s speech ended with an electronic squeal. He dropped the mic.

“Hate that thing,” he said.

They waited. Nothing happened. No lights came on or off, which Kevin supposed was good, but no one stepped onto the porch to whistle in the German shepherds. “What do you think’s happening in there?” he asked.

The chief held up one finger. “They’re just now figuring out what they heard wasn’t part of the ten o’clock news.” He held up a second finger. “Or they’re running around the house like rats, collecting bags of pot and meth and Oxys and flushing them down the toilet as fast as they can pull the chain.” He held up a third finger. “Or they’re arming themselves, because you can’t get rid of a body in five minutes. That’s the one that worries me.” He unsnapped his holster and drew his Glock .40. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” he said. He opened the magazine and checked it.

Kevin unholstered his Colt .44 and did the same.

The chief flicked the speaker system on again. “Donald and Neil Christie. If you’re not out here in three minutes restraining these dogs, my men and I will have to shoot them.” This time, he turned the mic off before it could catch the bounceback.

“We’re not really going to shoot the dogs, are we?” Kevin knew he sounded unprofessional, but shit. Dogs? He didn’t know if he could do it.

“I sure as hell don’t want to,” the chief said. “On the other hand, if Amado Esfuentes is in there, I’m not going to sit on my ass out here while they do what they want with him.”

“But… the dogs? It’s not their fault they’re behaving like this. Somebody trained them to do it.”

The chief shifted in his seat a little to where he could see Kevin straight on. “Sometimes you’re going to be in a situation where there aren’t any good choices, Kevin. You just have to pick the better of two bad ones, and learn to live with the outcome.” The chief got a funny look on his face. Kevin thought he might say more, but then a light flashed from the house and they straightened to see the two beefy brothers step out onto the porch. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber, Eric had called them. They looked pissed off, but they appeared to be unarmed. Then a shorter, more slender man joined them.

“Interesting.” The chief rubbed his thumb over his lip. “I wonder why Bruce Christie’s making a late visit to the old homestead.” After the Christies called up the German shepherds and shut them in the house, the chief and Kevin got out. The chief secured his weapon again, but left the holster un-snapped. Ready to go. Kevin did the same. He heard the heavy thunks of the other cruiser’s doors closing from somewhere beside the barn. MacAuley and Noble, making sure no one was stealing away out back.

“You got a lotta nerve—” Donald Christie began.

Bruce thumped him in his chest. “How can we help you, Chief?”

“You can start by telling me where you all were tonight.”

“Right here. At home.”

“You living here now, Bruce?”

Bruce Christie grinned. “Just until your boys catch the sumbitch who trashed my trailer.” He gestured toward them. “You guys look like one a them SWAT teams, all armored up like that. What’s goin‘ on?”

“Someone broke into Reverend Fergusson’s house in town.” Donald Christie’s hand flew to his nose. Kevin pressed his lips together to keep from showing his amusement. “They tore it up pretty bad. The church’s janitor, who was living there, is missing.” The chief looked at Neil Christie. “You remember him, right, Neil? I mean, before Reverend Fergusson knocked you unconscious.”

The big man grunted.

“Sounds like it might be the same crew as broke into my place,” Bruce said. “You sure the Mexican isn’t workin‘ with ’em?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m sure of. I’m sure your brothers went to St. Alban’s in May looking for Amado Esfuentes. I’m sure they would’ve beat the crap out of him if they could have. And I’m sure interested in taking a look around here to see if maybe you all brought him home tonight for a little talking-to.”

Bruce Christie kept on smiling. “You got a warrant, Chief?”

Without taking his eyes off Bruce, the chief pulled his phone from his pocket. He tossed it to Kevin, who tried to look matter-of-fact about catching it. “Officer Flynn,” the chief said, “Assistant District Attorney Amy Nguyen is number eight on my speed dial. I want you to ask her to take the Christies’ case file to Judge Ryswick with a search warrant request.” His voice took on a confidential tone, clearly directed at Bruce. “Your brothers’ case was filed, not dismissed. Which means it can be reopened at any time.” He glanced at his watch. “I expect we’ll be here about two hours, waiting for the warrant to arrive.” He looked back up to the porch, where Bruce Christie’s pleasant veneer was cracking. “I figure by then, in order to justify our overtime, we’ll have to go over your place with a fine-tooth comb.” He glanced at Kevin. “Officer Flynn, where’s the nearest K-Nine unit?”

Kevin stepped up to the plate. “The Capital Area Drug Enforcement Association has a trained narcotics-sniffing dog available in Kingston, Chief. His handler could be here in under an hour.” He held up the phone. “You want me to call him?”

“I don’t know, Officer Flynn.” The chief looked at the Christies. “What do you think, Bruce?”

“The Mexican’s not here. He got the message to stay away from our sister. We don’t have no other business with him.”

“Izzy ain’t seeing him no more,” Neil said. “He didn’t understand when she told him to clear off, ‘cause he don’t speak no English.”

Kevin thought Neil wasn’t doing so hot in that department himself.

The chief spread his hands. “All we’re looking for is Amado. I’m not interested in anything else. Yet.”

The Christies looked at one another. Donald spoke up. “I don’t want you scaring nobody. We got kids here, some a my fiancée’s and some a mine while their mom is outta town.”

“I suspect the best way not to scare them is if we all cooperate.”

The Christies looked at one another again. Bruce nodded to his brothers. Turned toward the chief. “All right,” he said.

The chief motioned toward the barn. “Two of my men will search the barn. It’d go faster and easier if one of you went with them.”

Bruce Christie cut a sharp glance at his brothers. “I’ll go.” He clattered down the stairs and headed for the three-story structure. Kevin tagged the barn as the most likely spot for whatever illegal substances the Christies were hiding.

The chief reached inside the cruiser and snatched the mic. “Lyle?” he said.

The speaker cracked on. “Here.”

“Bruce Christie is headed your way to show you around his barn. Make sure you get a look at any outbuildings as well.”

“Roger that.”