Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  The man shook his head. “Once they got their keys, the renters come and go on their own. I mean, if I hadda thought … but Christ, who’d’ve thought of this?”

  “Okay. Eric, the first thing we have to do is to find out who Jonathan Davies is. Did Sullivan have a fake ID? Or is Davies another pervert he met up with while he was doing time? Once we’ve gotten that down, we need a warrant and a forensic team. I want to know if the girl was in here at some point in the last three days.”

  Eric nodded. “If she was, where do you think he or they moved her?”

  Lyle crossed his arms and stared at the concrete floor. “My gut’s saying he—or they—went to ground. There’s an AMBER Alert out, which makes it a lot more dangerous for him to be in a car. Hard to hide a kid in a car.” It would be a lot easier to hide a body, but he didn’t need to tell Eric that.

  “Not a lot of motels open this time of year.”

  “Yeah, and they have people around. Maids. Managers.”

  “Someplace private,” Eric said. “Preferably away from the towns. Maybe Davies has a house out in the country.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Lyle took off his hat and banged it against his leg. “Because all anyone has to do is keep her tucked away long enough for her body to reject that liver. She dies of natural causes and we’ve got nothing to say who’s responsible.”

  9.

  “Grab the rifle and the cartridges,” Russ said. Clare stuffed the boxes in one parka pocket and slid out of the truck. She leaned in, flipped open the glove box, and removed Russ’s heavy Maglite.

  “Clare. Into the trees. Now.” She bumped the door shut with her elbow. Russ was breaking the trail for her—literally, as the freezing rain was creating a hard crystalline crust over the deep snow beneath. She floundered, trying to catch up to him. He reached out, and she passed him the rifle. She shoved the flashlight into her other pocket and took his proffered hand.

  The pines were dense, sheltering them from the incessant rain. Russ tugged her deeper and deeper into the trees, the ground sloping more steeply as they descended toward the lake. They pressed on until even the yellow shine of their headlights had disappeared from view. Russ stopped and cracked open the rifle’s magazine.

  “Maybe it’s a good Samaritan,” she said in an undertone.

  He held out his hand for the cartridges. She passed him a box. “I hope it is.” His voice was as quiet as hers had been. “I hope I’m being a paranoid fool.” He thumbed the cartridges in and safetied the rifle. “Listen.” He took her hand. “I’m going up there to see what’s going on. If you hear anything—any gunfire, any yelling—I want you to keep walking downslope until you reach the lake. It’s only about a quarter, half mile from here.”

  “Russ—” she said.

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Follow the lake until you get to our place. You can hole up there until daylight. You can stoke the fire in the woodstove, but don’t turn on any of the lamps. As soon as it’s light enough to move, head up the north shore toward the county highway. Stay off the road.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment. “I’m not planning on being left behind. This is just in case.”

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “Always.” He turned and headed back upslope, swinging wide of the trail they had broken, cutting through virgin snow. She wanted to go after him, to offer to do something, but she knew that pregnant and unarmed she’d be more of a distraction than a help. She felt useless, useless and afraid. Oh, God, please protect him. Please keep him safe. Please, God, please, God, please.

  She waited. And waited. And waited. She heard nothing. Oh, God, what if someone took Russ without a shot being fired? How would she know? She could follow him. She might be bulky, but she could still move quietly. And she had the Maglite, long and heavy, like a club. She would follow Russ and see what they had done with him and then … then … she would figure something out. She always worked best when she was improvising, anyway.

  A movement in the trees ahead of her sent her down into the snow—a less-than-useful camouflage when she discovered she couldn’t get as flat as she used to. She raised her head to see her husband threading his way between the hemlocks.

  “Is that your attempt at hiding?” Russ was still speaking in an almost-whisper. Her hopes that the oncoming vehicle had been friendly drizzled away.

  “I figured standing behind a tree wouldn’t work.” He reached down and helped her to her feet. “What’s going on?”

  “Two guys in an SUV. Both of ’em armed. They got out of the vehicle and walked up and down the road.”

  “Our tracks.”

  Russ nodded. “They found them. Followed our trail to the trees. They got close enough for me to ID one of them. It was the guy in the cabin.”

  “So.” Clare swallowed. “Not good Samaritans, then.” Not when they went looking for lost motorists with their rifles locked and loaded.

  “They opened up the truck and rifled through the glove compartment.” Russ shook his head. “I’m worried, Clare. Real worried. This is exactly the kind of country you’re likely to find meth houses or pot barns. If these guys are up here on serious business, we could be in a world of trouble.”

  She leaned against him. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I knew Amber Willis for exactly four minutes before I offered her a ride out here.”

  Russ put his arm around her and hugged her as close as they could get in two bulky parkas. “Whatever’s going on in that house, I don’t think Amber knew about it ahead of time.”

  “Still. It might have been useful if I knew her uncle was, I don’t know, a convicted felon. Or that her boyfriend was on the terrorist watch list.”

  Russ let out a huff of a laugh. “That one, I think I can give you a pass on.”

  “Now what? The truck is still stuck in the snow. Do you want to change your mind about shoveling it out?”

  “No. What I want to do is go down the road a ways and take shelter someplace where I can see if they decide to come back. While I’m keeping watch, you’re going to get on the radio and see if you can get through on the emergency band.”

  “How about I keep watch and you make the call? If I can raise a dispatcher, she’ll take you more seriously.”

  “Because if anyone does come back up the road, my plan is to shoot out one of their tires and then run like hell.” He pressed one gloved hand against the bulk of her abdomen. “Running like hell through snow isn’t your strong suit right now.”

  “Sadly true. Okay, let’s—” A screeching, whirring noise split the cathedral quiet of the pines.

  “The hell?” Russ turned and jogged upslope, twisting through birch and hemlock and pines, his legs churning up more snow in his already-broken path. Clare ran after him as well as she could. In the best of circumstances, the pregnancy threw her balance off; now, in irregularly compacted snow over hidden roots and slumbering plants, she had to fling her arms wide just to keep from toppling over.

  She lost Russ altogether for a moment, then rediscovered him at the edge of the wood, where the mature trees began to thin into saplings and brush. He was sprawled in the snow in a classic sniper’s position. He gestured for her to get down. She dropped to her hands and knees, then curled sideways into the lowest silhouette she could manage.

  The whirring sound was coming from a winch motor bolted to the front of a heavy work truck, one of the two-ton jacks-of-all-trades she was used to seeing all over Cossayuharie’s farm country. As she watched, a snowsuited man carried the unspooling tow wire to the rear of Russ’s pickup. He bent down and vanished from their sight for a minute.

  “Was that one of the men you saw?” she whispered.

  Russ was peering through his rifle scope. “Yeah. Amber’s alleged uncle.” Russ’s voice was low and tense. “I didn’t see whoever it was behind the door, but the driver’s got to be the other guy. The uncle told me he owned a two-ton. The other
guy’s got the SUV. That means there are likely only the two—” He broke off as the pickup shuddered. The winch engine roared, whined, and then their truck was rolling back up through the deep ruts they had gashed in the snow. It tilted crazily for a moment getting over the snow berm, and then it was back on the solid surface of the road. The man who had hooked up the winch wire climbed into the passenger side of the heavy-duty truck. The vehicle slowly backed down the road, towing their pickup with it.

  “Well, that’s that.” Russ rolled over and sat up. “Christ, what a goat cluster.”

  Clare clambered to her feet. “Come on.”

  “Come on?” He looked up at her. “Where?”

  “It’s time to put your just-in-case plan into action. We walk along the lake edge to our cabin. We can hole up there for the night.”

  Russ handed her the rifle before standing up and brushing the snow off himself. “You do realize they probably know where we’re staying, right?”

  “I thought your idea was sound. No lights. There’s no way anyone will be able to see any chimney smoke at night in this miserable weather.” She reached up and pulled a clot of frozen snow off the fur trim of his hood. “This ice storm isn’t stopping anytime soon. We need shelter. And heat.” Or we’ll die. She didn’t have to add that last. She could read it in Russ’s eyes.

  “We’ll have to sleep in watches.”

  “I can do that.” She turned downslope, toward the lake. It was going to be a long, miserable march, and they would both be soaked by the time they got to the cabin. Better to get started sooner rather than later.

  “You’re a hell of a woman. Have I told you that lately?”

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder to disguise how scared she was. “Next vacation? Caribbean beach. And no one knows where we’re going.”

  10.

  If Hadley had thought about it—and okay, yes, she had—she would have pictured Kevin Flynn’s family as Flynn in duplicate; a bunch of bright-eyed, optimistic redheads in a dumpy house with lots of books. As it was, they did seem to be a cheerful crew, but Kevin’s brothers, ranging from their early thirties to college age, all had sandy blond or brown hair, and his parents’ house was big and modern and in a ritzy development outside of Saratoga.

  Flynn ushered her and the kids in—she hissed a last-minute warning to Hudson, who had been complaining during most of the ride there—and she was immediately overwhelmed by what seemed to be hundreds of Flynns. They resolved into two older brothers with wives and small children, two younger brothers, unattached, and Flynn’s—Kevin’s—parents. His dad resembled one of the stevedores she used to see at Long Beach, buttoned into a good shirt and ordered to stay clean. His mother looked to be the one buttoning and ordering; she had expensively cut and colored hair and a puff of a sweater that had to be cashmere. Hadley, in jeans and a turtleneck, felt a twinge of self-consciousness, but the daughters-in-law weren’t done up any fancier than she was, so she supposed she would do.

  Flynn—Kevin—did a rapid-fire introduction of his relations, of which Sean and Elle, his parents, were the only names that lodged in her memory. He finished with “Everybody, this is Hadley Knox, and her kids, Hudson and Geneva.”

  “Hadley Knox?” One of the daughters-in-law smiled.

  “The one who works with Kevin?” the youngest Flynn asked.

  “That would be Officer Knox to you, frog-face,” an older brother said.

  Elle Flynn parted the crowd to take Hadley’s hand. “You’re even more lovely than Kevin’s description.”

  Hadley’s wash of embarrassment was mollified by the sight of Flynn’s face turning bright red. “Mom…” he protested.

  Elle ignored her son. “We’re so glad you could join us for Sunday dinner.”

  “About time you finally brought a girl, Kev. We were starting to wonder.” The oldest brother punched Flynn in the arm.

  Flynn smiled tightly. “It’d be a shame if I had to ticket you for a busted taillight, Connor.”

  “My taillight isn’t—hey!”

  “Boys.” Sean Flynn’s voice cut through the catcalls and jeers rising from his sons. “Leave Kevin alone, or he’ll never be like to bring another girl for Sunday.” He turned and beamed at Hadley, and she could see where Kevin had gotten his breathtakingly sweet smile. “And what a waste and a shame that would be.”

  “Oh, Lord help us, he’s breaking out the blarney and we haven’t even poured the wine yet.” Elle Flynn linked her arm through Hadley’s. “You come in the kitchen with me and the girls. It’s a testosterone-free zone.”

  Flynn had told her his mother did something for the governor’s office, but Hadley figured the woman’s training was in law, because in the half hour before they sat down, Elle Flynn deposed Hadley like a master. She got Hadley’s life story—at least the expurgated version—her kids’ grades, sports, and interests, the Hadley family history, and her religious affiliation. “Oh. You’re not Catholic?” Elle waved one oven-mitt-clad hand. “Well, never mind. Sadie wasn’t Catholic, either.”

  The dark-haired daughter-in-law tossing salad rolled her eyes. “I’m still not Catholic, Elle.”

  “Jewish is practically Catholic,” Elle said. “You have the guilt, you adore your mothers, and you own good silver candlesticks.”

  “Don’t let Elle throw you,” Sadie said as she and Hadley toted steaming dishes out to the dining room table. “She loves her sons, but she always sides with the girls against the boys.”

  “Flynn and I aren’t … we just work together.” Hadley plunked her bowl of stuffing on a hot pad. The lace-covered table was larger than her first West Hollywood flat. “I mean, we’re friends, but we’re not, you know…” She shut up at the amused expression on Sadie’s face. God. She sounded like a high schooler justifying accepting a ride from a boy at school.

  She excused herself to find her kids. Hudson and Flynn were playing Wii tennis in the family room, with Flynn’s brothers encouraging Hudson to wipe the floor with Kevin. Genny was upstairs, playing dress-up with a curly-headed girl of about six who had to be Sadie’s daughter. Hadley hustled both of them off to wash their hands and got back down just in time to be seated.

  Sean Flynn led them in a prayer that included blessing the food, the grandchildren, and all the souls of the faithfully departed. Hadley half-expected to see the men lunge for the heaping platters of roast chicken and lasagna, but either Elle or Sean had trained them up well, and the dishes passed around the table in an orderly fashion.

  “This is amazing,” Hadley said to Flynn, who was seated to her left. “In my family, we didn’t have meals like this at Thanksgiving, let alone every day.”

  Flynn shook his head. “We didn’t eat like this every day, believe me. Mom went back to work for the Small Business Administration full-time after Ian started kindergarten.” He nodded toward his youngest brother. “I was raised on microwave dinners and takeout from Amato’s Italian Diner.” He grinned. “Which is probably why we’re the only Irish American family that eats pasta alfredo on St. Paddy’s Day instead of corned beef.”

  “What’s that you’re saying about the blessed saint?” Sean asked from the head of the table.

  “I was explaining we didn’t have dinners like this seven nights a week when we were growing up.”

  “God, no.” Sean took a sip of his wine. “We’d none of us be able to fit out the door. We were both of us working long hours when the boys were young,” he said to Hadley.

  “Dad owns his own construction company,” Kevin explained. “Connor works with him.”

  “But Elle had the brave idea that we should all sit down as a family once a week. So we started, and so we continue. Our table keeps getting bigger, with daughters and grandchildren and”—Sean raised his glass to Hadley—“the occasional charming guest. But we’ll keep the Sabbath together so long as we fit into this dining room.”

  “That’s not going to stop him,” Connor said. “He’s already got plans to expand out through the back
porch.” He grinned. “Once Kevin gets off his duff and starts contributing to ‘the grandchild shortage around here.’” He said the last words in a perfect imitation of his father’s accent.

  Flynn threw a roll at his brother’s head.

  “Boys!” Elle set her fork down and glared at them.

  “They’re getting their Irish up now,” Sadie said.

  Hadley could imagine what it would be like, coming here every Sunday, wrapped in the warm and easy affection of the Flynns. Watching the children grow up, watching the grandparents grow old, with Flynn always beside her, steady and rooted as the Adirondack mountains. She could be one of them. Part of the family. Right up until the moment when they found out about her unlovely past.

  She laid her fork on her plate and took a stab at rejoining the conversation. “How about you, Elle? Are you Irish, too? Your name’s French, isn’t it?”

  The table erupted in laughter.

  “What?” Hadley turned toward Flynn. “What did I say?”

  Elle folded her hands and smiled. “I am Irish, yes. Although my family came to America about a century before my husband finally made it.”

  “Always save the best for last,” Sean said.

  “I changed my name when I married Sean. To my initial. My Christian name was”—she sighed—“Lynn.”

  Hadley paused for a moment. Then she got it. “Oh!” Up and down the table, Elle’s sons were snickering. “I changed my first name, too.” She didn’t normally advertise the fact, but she felt a kindred spirit with Flynn’s mother. “My parents called me Honey.”

  “A little too sweet for an officer of the law, then.” Sean took another drink of wine. “Honey Knox.”

  “No, Knox is from my former husband.” That and the children were the only good things he had ever given her. “My, um, birth name was Potts.”

  There was a moment of silence at the table. Then the room rocked with laughter. Hadley couldn’t help it. She began to laugh as well—the first time she had been able to join in on the amusement engendered by that awful, awful name. Sean raised his glass. The rest of the table followed suit. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “a toast. To Honey Potts and Lynn Flynn. May their names be a blessing.”