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

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  * * *

  Flynn drove them home. The wintry mix had turned to a remorseless icy rain that hit the roof of the Aztek like bird shot from a 20-gauge. The big plows were out on the Northway, in a futile battle to keep the interstate ice-free. Flynn kept his SUV at a steady thirty-five, and that felt just about right. “Do you think we’ll get called back out tonight?” Hadley asked.

  “Not unless aliens invade. I think MacAuley would rather close up the streets with barricades than pay us triple time.”

  She laughed softly. “Yeah.” She twisted around to check the kids. They were both sound asleep, Hudson leaning against Flynn’s rolled-up emergency blanket, Genny clutching a giant pillow buddy Elle and Sean had insisted she take. Hadley faced front again. “I like your family.”

  Flynn smiled. “I like them, too.” Something passed over his face, outlined in the dim glow from his dashboard.

  “What?”

  “I have to—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  He let out a breath. “I’ve gotten a job offer. From the Syracuse Police Department.”

  Hadley blinked. What did he mean? “A job offer, like another TDY for a few months?”

  “No, a permanent position. As an officer on the force, full-time.”

  “You mean, you might leave Millers Kill for good?” Hadley couldn’t help herself, her voice cracked on the last word. She couldn’t fit her head around the idea of the MKPD without Flynn.

  “I don’t know. It’s a great opportunity. Get off of patrol, move into investigations. In a few more years, I could make detective.”

  “You investigate here. We’re running a missing persons case right now.” She forced her voice into a less panicked tone. “They’re not going to let you do that in Syracuse.”

  “We’re running one part of the case because there literally isn’t anyone else to do the work. That’s a long way from actually being a detective.” He shook his head. “There are no detectives on the MKPD. The town won’t authorize that pay grade.”

  “You could be a sergeant. Like Eric.”

  “I’m not going to make sergeant until MacAuley retires and Eric steps into his shoes.”

  “But still. Do you really want to leave Millers Kill?” Cripes. Now she sounded like her grandfather. She didn’t know why she was arguing with Flynn. He was right. Syracuse would offer him more. More money, more opportunities—

  Don’t go. Please don’t go.

  She shifted in her seat.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been the kind of guy who had the big urge to go out and see the world. My family is all within an hour’s drive. My friends from high school.”

  “Did you like working at the Syracuse department? When you were there on TDY?”

  “Yeah, I did. It was … lively. It’s a big city, and there was always something going down. The guys I worked with were good cops.” He paused. “It was nice not being ‘the kid,’ you know? I mean, the chief and MacAuley are great, but they still look at me like I just got out of the academy. There were a lot of young guys in Syracuse, so I wasn’t the junior boy detective there.” A car pulled into the lane ahead of him, splattering ice and salt over the Aztek’s windshield. Flynn slowed down.

  “I guess … Syracuse would be a good place for you. Careerwise, I mean.”

  “Yeah. I just have to figure out if it’s what I want.”

  He didn’t seem to want to say anything more about the job, so Hadley let him focus on his driving. Moving on would be a sensible choice for him to make. She leaned forward and adjusted the dash vent. So why did the idea make her so miserable? It wasn’t like she was going to have a personal relationship with him. Dylan’s arrival had just underlined why that would be impossible. Was it because they made a good team? She let her eyes half-shut. She had been glad when MacAuley assigned them to this case. It had gotten them past the awkwardness of rejected romance and back into the groove of working together. Flynn was pretty close to the perfect partner for her. Even though she was eight years his senior, they had similar tastes in food and music and movies. They got each other. He was smart and intuitive and hardworking. And he had this way of defusing situations, of calming people down that was a good balance to her more confrontational approach.

  And he was amazing in bed.

  Jesus H. Christ, what was wrong with her?

  “What?” Flynn asked.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “You just made a noise.”

  She touched her heated throat, grateful he couldn’t see her flush in the dim light from the dashboard. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

  “About your ex?”

  She grasped the conversational lifeline. “Yeah.”

  “Let me know if he tries anything, okay?”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  He took one hand off the steering wheel and touched her arm just above her wrist. “I mean it. You’re not alone, Hadley. You can ask for help.” He dropped his hand. “And if you’re, you know, uncomfortable talking to me, go to one of the other guys. We’re family. We look out for one another.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you.” He returned his attention to the road. She looked at his profile: high cheekbones, bumped nose—he had broken it in a high school basketball game—his forehead, where his regulation-short hair threatened to flop forward within a week after he visited the barber. Who he was shone out of his features, good and kind and honest. Flynn was a clear river running by; no darkness, no hidden snags or treacherous rapids. Compared to him, she felt like the Swamp Thing.

  Granddad had left the porch and kitchen lights on, but his window was dark; he had already gone to bed. There was no sign of Dylan’s car. Hadley steered her sleepy son into the kitchen and straight upstairs. Flynn carried Genny. For once, Hadley gave a pass on toothbrushing, and she got the kids into their pajamas and bedded down within minutes.

  Flynn was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks for taking Genny to her room.”

  His smile was outlined in the half-light spilling from the kitchen. “I had no idea there were that many Hello Kitty posters in the world.”

  “Yeah. When she gets into her Hello Kitty nightgown, I can’t spot her unless she moves.”

  They both laughed a little. They were standing in the shadows near the door. Everyone else in the house was asleep behind closed doors. He looked down at her and she saw that clear river running, felt the whole-body shock of diving in.

  She had made the move on him, that first summer she was on the force. Then again at the chief’s wedding. It had been good, why not do it again? It had frustrated her—no, she’d been pissed off—that he kept shoving emotions into what should have been a simple, mindless, physical release.

  But looking into his eyes in the half-light, Hadley realized she couldn’t do it anymore, despite the hour and the darkness and her bed just a stair flight away. Not because he might say no again. Not because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings afterward. But because she was so close to falling for him that even sliding her arms around his neck and stretching up for a kiss might send her over the edge.

  She broke her gaze and stared at her stockinged feet. “Good night, Flynn. Thanks for everything.”

  She heard him breathe. “Good night, Hadley.” He paused at the door. “It was my pleasure.”

  11.

  Mikayla tossed fitfully in her narrow bed. She was so hot. She had kicked off the blankets earlier, but that hadn’t helped. Aspirin hadn’t helped—awful, grown-up aspirin that she had choked on until it turned to powder in her mouth because there wasn’t any of the chewable pills or bubblegum-flavored stuff her mom gave her.

  She wanted to open the window even though the rain was still coming down, but she had been told to keep the window locked and the curtains closed. She wanted her mom. Or her Meme. Or even Helen, who made a game out of all the medicines Mikayla had to take. She wanted someone to change her sweaty sheets and
bring her a fresh clean nightie and lay a cool washcloth on her head. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home, even if she wasn’t sure where home was.

  Mikayla pressed her face into her pillow and began to cry.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 12

  1.

  The wail of a siren woke Clare up. She had taken the first watch, after they had finally gotten to the cabin and dried off. It had been a nightmarish slog through the dark and the pelting rain, the flashlight angled down so that they could only just see where their boots would fall, the crack and boom of branches snapping under the steadily accumulating layers of ice. By the time they reached the cabin, Clare felt like one exposed nerve, numb with cold and scraped raw by the artillerylike barrage of exploding wood. She had been drop-jawed when she checked her watch and found their hike had lasted less than two hours.

  Russ had toweled dry, wolfed down two bowls of the stew she had made that morning, and was asleep before she had finished hanging their wet clothing over an old drying rack she had found in the bathroom. Even the thud of small branches falling on the roof hadn’t awakened him. Clare had roamed from window to window, watching for the telltale gleam of headlights or flashlights, certain she would never be able to sleep in the face of the noise of the storm and her own sick dread of what might be out there in the darkness. But after she shook her husband awake and took his place under the covers—the bed already warm and smelling of Russ—she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Until the siren. She pushed herself into a sitting position, groggy and disoriented. The light through the windows was gray and watery. “Russ?” Her voice was dry. She scrubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

  The stoves were stoked, but Russ and the dog were gone. As was the rifle. Clare struggled into her clothes and was just tying on her boots when the siren ceased. The sudden lack of noise enabled her to hear the spatter-ping of the falling ice. The storm was still going on.

  She shrugged on her parka—the clothing from yesterday was board stiff and bone dry, hanging next to the woodstove—and went out the door. She couldn’t see the road from where she stood, but she thought she heard the thrum of an engine up there. The steep stairs they had used just yesterday were so coated with ice they could have served as a luge run. Next to the steps, however, she could see where Russ’s boots had stomped an irregular path through the ice-crusted snow. She followed in his footsteps. Despite the hill’s angle, her footing was sound; beneath the thick layer of ice, the snow was firm, catching and crunching beneath her boot treads. She popped over the lip of the hill, panting and hot, to find Russ and another cop sitting inside a state police cruiser.

  The passenger door swung open, and Russ stepped out. “I’m sorry, darlin’. You didn’t have to come all the way up here.”

  “What’s…” She waved at the car while catching her breath. “… going on?”

  The trooper stepped out of his vehicle. He was as tall as Russ, but leaner, bald with a laurel wreath of gray hair clipped down to a shadow at the back of his skull. “You remember Bob Mongue, don’t you?” Russ said.

  “Sergeant Mongue. Of course.” Every time Russ’s path had crossed with Bob Mongue’s, it was like watching two dogs snarling over the same bone. She had never really gotten the story why.

  “It’s lieutenant now, Mrs. Van Alstyne. Why don’t you get into the car where we can all stay dry?”

  Clare ducked into the rear seat. Oscar was already there, his nose making smears against the Plexiglas shield that separated cops from criminals. Russ and Bob Mongue climbed back into their places. Mongue slid the partition open, leaving a grated screen they could talk through.

  “Lyle and the Burnses both reported us missing,” Russ said, before she could ask what had brought the state police to their door. “I’ve told Bob what happened yesterday.”

  “We’ve called in the license number of the truck that towed your vehicle.” Mongue tapped the elaborate radio and computer mount on his dashboard. “We’re waiting to hear back on the owner.”

  “You just … drove right past there, without any trouble?” Clare glanced at Russ. Had his concerns about the danger been overblown?

  Mongue laughed a little. “Well, I do have chains on the tires. I’m not going to take a nosedive off the road like Russ’s truck did.”

  Her husband’s lips tightened.

  “I meant, no interference from anyone,” Clare said. She checked her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. “Did you use your siren the whole way?”

  “I certainly did. It could have been an officer down. We all remember what happened that other time Russ went walking through icy woods.” He grinned. “Although that was more like officer falling down.”

  “I don’t think one broken leg in ten years as chief actually sets a precedent,” Russ said.

  “Still, we’re glad you came.” Clare wanted to get the subject away from “officer down,” before they started showing each other their bullet scars. “I’d expect a trooper, not a lieutenant.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Van Alstyne. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

  Russ opened his mouth, but at that moment the radio crackled to life. “State delta oh-four-nine.” The voice was washed with static.

  Mongue unhitched the mic. “This is state delta oh-four-nine. Go ahead.”

  “The owner of record is Travis Roy. He has one arrest one conviction possession, one arrest one conviction—” The voice was drowned in a surge of static.

  Mongue twisted the dial. “Dispatch? Can you copy that?”

  “—possible ten-fifty.”

  Russ and Mongue both sat up straight. Russ gestured to Mongue. The lieutenant keyed the mic again. “Dispatch, ten-twenty-one.”

  “Travis Roy is BOLO from the Millers Kill Police Department in connection to a possible juvenile ten-fifty.”

  Russ sucked in his breath.

  “What’s a ten-fifty?” Clare asked.

  The grating cast a shadow over Russ’s face. “Missing person,” he said.

  2.

  “Dep?” Noble Entwhistle peered around the door, waving a sheaf of papers in his hand. Lyle was spending the morning working the phones in the chief’s office, split between worry over Russ and annoyance that the man had gone on his benighted honeymoon in the first place. Lyle knew what honeymoons were supposed to be for, and as far as he was concerned, you could do it at home in the comfort of your own bed. But no, Russ had wanted ice fishing, and as a result they were shorthanded during what was bidding fair to be the ice storm of the goddamn century.

  He beckoned Noble in, still talking into the receiver. “Then turn your search and rescue guys out. If they can find idiot hikers in the mountains, they should be able to throw up a few barricades and help direct traffic.” John Huggins had called him up complaining about not having enough emergency roadway volunteers. Lyle, who already had a bad taste in his mouth after having to go hat in hand to the state police for help in finding Russ, wasn’t inclined to baby the fire chief.

  “I can’t ask those guys to—”

  Lyle cut him off. “I don’t care if you ask the Girl Scouts to do the job. We’re getting calls about fallen tree limbs and downed lines and all the National Grid guys can tell me is we’re on their list and they’re responding to reports in order of importance. So you get someone out there before somebody drives over a goddamn live wire and fries himself!” He slammed the phone down. He’d pay for it later, but it sure made him feel better right now.

  “I got the circ sheet info for Travis Roy.” He frowned at the stack of papers in his hand. “There’s more than one.

  “There usually is.” Lyle took the papers and began thumbing through them.

  “Dep?”

  “Yeah?” Lyle pulled out one of the circ sheets as a possible.

  “You know you asked me to run a check on the MacAllens? Just in case?”

  “Yeah.” Here was a good one, he thought, glancing over the sheet in hand. Guy had been arrested for soliciting for pr
ostitution—pimping. Maybe he had branched out into little girls.

  “There was something kind of funny.”

  Lyle finally focused on Noble. “What?”

  “Mr. MacAllen was retired FBI. And, uh, as near as I can tell, they never took in any foster kids before they got sent Mikayla.”

  3.

  Mongue wanted to head over there right away. “There are two of them,” he said, leaning over the kitchen counter. “There are two of us.”

  “Two is the minimum number. There may be more.” Russ stuffed his flannel-lined jeans and a heavy sweater into his fishing duffel. “Plus hostages. If he is the kidnapper, he’s got our missing girl. Plus there’s a chance Amber Willis and her baby are still in the house.”

  “All the more reason to hit ’em now.” Mongue crossed to the enclosed porch and peered out to where, on a clear day, they would have seen the morning sun. “Before they get moved to another location.”

  Clare looked up from where she was filling her day pack. “Is it possible Roy has the girl? It sounded like the mother had taken her when you told me about it.”

  “Yes, it’s possible.” Russ swung his rifle’s magazine cover open and let the cartridges fall into his hand. He locked the safety and slid the gun into the duffel. “But whoever took Mikayla Johnson left two bodies behind. They’re dangerous. Which is why you’re not getting anywhere near them.”

  “You could leave her here,” Mongue suggested.

  Russ rounded on him. “I’m not leaving my pregnant wife alone in the middle of an ice storm so you can get another commendation letter in your file!”

  Mongue’s jaw set. “Fine. Have it your way.” He picked up Clare’s pack. “I’ll carry this up for you, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

  “Please, call me—” But Mongue was already out the door. She turned on Russ.

  “I’m not going to just drop this lead,” he said. “But I want to get you somewhere safe first. Then we’ll get proper reinforcements, and then we can hit that house and question Travis Roy.”