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

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Clare was still smiling when she closed the door.

  She held the Maglite in front of her until she made the first rise. She didn’t see any vehicles at the side of the road up ahead, but she couldn’t recall what Russ had said about the distance, and she didn’t want to stumble across the FBI agents lit up like a circus. She shoved the flashlight up her sleeve, letting the lens rest against her gloved fingers. It gave a subdued glow, enough so she wouldn’t trip over her own feet, but not so much as to draw unwanted attention.

  Just as he had when he traveled across the ice with her and Russ, Oscar stuck close and stayed quiet. She reached a second hill and still couldn’t see the squad cars and SUVs they had met this afternoon. At the third crest, she turned off the Maglite. She stood a few moments, letting her eyes adjust until the blackness around her lightened into shades of gray: pale snow, ashen trees, charcoal forest. Stars burned hot in the narrow sky between the pines. Oscar nudged her leg, and they went forward again, a little more slowly.

  Her hearing sharpened in the dark; she could make out the creak and snap of branches, the shiver of pine needles, the far-off tu-whut of an owl, hunting early after so many nights of frozen rain. And, fainter than the owl, a voice.

  No, two voices. The road curved ahead, but she saw no light or movement, so she kept to the open. The road wasn’t in good shape—frozen over, then churned by the vehicles that had followed Russ up here—but it offered faster travel than the deep snow between the trees would. When she reached the curve, she left the path, sinking into knee-deep snow. Oscar wanted to stay where it was easy to walk, and it took her two attempts before he joined her. She scratched his head in lieu of spoken praise.

  The noise of an engine starting. She waded between birch and hemlock, keeping the road in sight. She could see something now. The glow of headlights, facing away from her, shining brilliantly against Kevin Flynn’s yellow Aztek. The voices continued, less audibly. A man and a woman. Clare pushed forward, needing to identify the speakers, thinking she was going to feel a complete idiot if she was sneaking up snow-ninja-style on Kevin and Hadley Knox.

  Suddenly, the voices were louder. The people talking were walking away from a black SUV, its engine running, toward the Essex County squad car parked a few lengths behind it. Clare froze in place behind a burly maple, her hand clutched in Oscar’s coat to keep him still.

  “—handle Roy,” the male voice was saying. “I’ve eaten dinners that were smarter than he is. We can keep him quiet until he’s locked up. Then he can have an accident.”

  “Fine. Fine.” The woman sounded agitated. “But what about Johnson? What’s going to prevent him from testifying once the girl is dead?”

  Mikayla.

  “LaMar’s going to have to take care of that.”

  “Goddammit! I hate this!” Even angry, the woman kept her voice down. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt, Tom. That was the whole point. That we could take care of it better.”

  “No, the point was to keep LaMar from getting convicted. We can still accomplish that.”

  “Over a pile of bodies!”

  “Do you want to march back down and surrender to the locals? We’ll spend the rest of our very short lives behind bars before ‘accidentally’ getting shivved in the laundry.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then screw your courage to the sticking point, my dear. Hector DeJean, at least, won’t be a loss to anyone.”

  Clare couldn’t hear it, but she could imagine the woman’s defeated sigh. “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Oh, dear Lord, no.

  They walked back toward the SUV. Clare followed, struggling through the snow, trying to keep up without being seen or heard.

  She couldn’t see the passenger side of the vehicle from where she was wallowing in the drifts, but she could hear the clunk as the door opened. The interior light sprang on, and she caught a glimpse of DeJean’s head.

  “It’s time for your escape, Hector.” The man stepped back as DeJean got out of the SUV. She could see him clearly in the wash from the headlights now, the tall FBI agent. You called it, Lyle.

  “I gave her the shots, but I can’t get the pills into her.” Hector’s voice was a mixture of anger and fright. “She won’t swallow. She’s sick. She’s really sick.”

  “Give it some time. We brought enough in the bag to treat her for a month.” The female agent sounded soothing.

  “It won’t matter if she can’t take it. How am I gonna get her professional help? If I show up in an emergency room I’ll get arrested.”

  “Pick up your daughter and get into your truck, Hector.” The man’s impatience was showing.

  Don’t do it, Hector! Clare squeezed Oscar’s fur more tightly. Maybe if DeJean kept talking, there’d be time for one of the MKPD officers to get here.

  “We’ll find the name and address of a doctor who will help you,” the male agent went on. “We’ll put it in the e-mail drop box.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon,” the man snapped. “But first you have to escape.”

  “Okay, okay, goddammit. How is this gonna work? Do I gotta hit one of you?”

  “We’re going to give you a few minutes’ head start. Then I’m going to fire my gun, and then we’re getting into our car to ‘chase’ you. When we return to meet up with the rest of the group here, we’ll report you went south, headed for Albany.”

  “Okay. Sure. Fine.” The interior lights sprang on again, and Hector ducked. Clare could see him lifting a quilt-wrapped Mikayla and a small satchel. He shouldered his daughter and shut the door. He took a step toward the other side of the road.

  Clare plunged across the few yards between her and the road, shaking branches and smashing ice as she ran. She burst out of the cover. “They’re going to shoot you and Mikayla!” she yelled.

  The male agent spun toward her, his gun out. She ducked behind the SUV at the same moment the report from his weapon sounded. Oscar began barking furiously. She heard a second shot fired and had time for the thought Mikayla before DeJean crashed into the snow beside her. Mikayla let out a weak cry of alarm.

  Clare grabbed the back of his coat and dragged them up. “We’re okay,” he gasped.

  “Who the hell was that?” the male agent demanded.

  “I didn’t see!” the woman yelled. “Come on.”

  “Into the trees,” Clare said. She pushed DeJean to go first. They broke cover and ran in the path created by Clare’s bootprints. Another shot thudded into a birch, showering Clare in ice. It echoed, and then she heard another, more distant report. “Go,” she breathed, “go, go!”

  “Daddy, don’t grab so hard. It hurts.”

  “Get the goggles and turn off those damn lights.” The man was in professional mode now, barking out orders.

  DeJean pressed deeper and deeper into the woods, breaking fresh trail. Clare, following, grabbed at him. “Goggles?”

  “Night vision,” he gasped.

  “Stop!” He plunged on, heedless. “Hector, stop! Think!” He paused and turned, panting. “We can’t outrun infrared vision. It picks up body heat, yours, mine”—she looked down at Oscar, quivering beside her—“the dog’s. We have to hide. Dig into the snow behind a big tree.”

  “They’ll find us!” Mikayla wiggled and pushed against her wrapping. DeJean cradled her head with one hand. “Quiet, baby. Be still.”

  “Russ will have heard the shots. He’s on his way right now.” Please, God, let that be true.

  Hector thrust Mikayla at her. Startled, she grabbed the quilt-wrapped girl. “I got a better idea.” He squatted in front of Oscar. “Hey, good dog.” Oscar let DeJean hoist him up without complaint.

  “Wait, what—”

  “Keep her safe till your man gets here.” He kissed the side of Mikayla’s head. “Love you, baby.” He bounded off, Oscar in his arms.

  Clare stood there, stunned, until the distant slam of a car door. Ambient light she hadn’t noticed disappeared. Behind a tree
, she thought. In the snow. There was a gnarled, thick-trunked oak a couple of yards ahead. She walked in a straight line, praying that the pine she had been sheltering against would keep her out of the agents’ line of sight. She sidled around the oak and dropped to the ground, leaning Mikayla against the base of the trunk. The girl whimpered a complaint. “I know, honey.” Clare cracked the ice crust and scooped out armful after armful of snow. “Just for a moment.” She dug until she had a long trench just wide enough for—a coffin—her body.

  She stripped off her parka, hoisted Mikayla and stretched out, her back to the frozen ground, the quilt-wrapped girl atop her. “We’re going to play a hiding game,” she whispered. Clare flung her parka over the two of them, tugged part of the quilt over her face, then reached out from beneath her coat and awkwardly tossed as much of the piled snow as she could over them. She kicked her feet, dislodging more snow on top of her boots and shins.

  Mikayla made a noise of protest. “Shh,” Clare whispered. “Shh. Just rest on me.” She couldn’t stroke the girl’s back for fear of knocking the snow off them, so she settled for kissing her hot forehead. They made an ungainly mound of woman, baby, and girl, but shielded by a heavily insulated coat and partially covered with snow, she figured their heat signature was dampened enough to be invisible unless the agents were practically on top of her. Of course, if they did get that close, she and Mikayla were defenseless.

  Russ, she thought. Remember how I said I didn’t need you to rescue me? Well, I do now.

  16.

  At the sound of gunshots, they all swung their heads toward the single-lane bridge ahead, where they had last seen the O’Days headed up the hill. Like pointers sighting a bird, they remained transfixed. “Damn,” the chief said under his breath. “Let’s go.”

  Kevin’s walkie-talkie switched on. “Tac Team One to Team. Anybody know what that was?”

  He answered. “Millers Kill One to Team. Shots fired up the hill where we parked.” He opened his mouth, but the chief shook his head no. “We’re going to check it out.”

  The chief put his hand out. Kevin surrendered the walkie-talkie. “Chief Van Alstyne here. I want everyone to maintain position until you hear otherwise.” He handed the unit back. It emitted clicks of acknowledgment as Kevin holstered it.

  The chief clambered up the bank with Hadley behind him and Kevin, as usual, bringing up the rear.

  “Okay,” he said when they were standing on the road. “This is what—”

  “Tac Team One to Team. We have movement. One suspect, two, no, three suspects exiting the rear of the house. Suspects are headed for the barn.”

  They all swung again, this time toward the barn. Not pointers, Kevin thought. Weather vanes. He could see what looked like shadows moving toward the narrow barn door.

  “Suspects are armed. Millers Kill chief, please advise.”

  Van Alstyne grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Maintain position.”

  From above the hill line, another shot rang out. Immediately, the crack of a tactical rifle answered. The shadows separated, sped up, flattened against the barn.

  “Goddammit, I said maintain position. That shot came from up the hill, not from the house.” The chief glanced up toward where the Feds had presumably disappeared.

  “Go on, Chief.” Hadley pushed him. “We can keep a lid on things here.”

  “You’re right. Kevin, mind if I take this?” He held up the walkie-talkie.

  “No, Chief.”

  “I’m going to see what the hell is going on with those two. Be ready to move when I call you. I may need backup.” He gestured with his chin toward the barn. “They’ve got no place to escape to. We can pick our time to round ’em up.” He turned and jogged away, headed up the steep road.

  “That sounds exactly like something someone says in a movie before disaster strikes.” Hadley unharnessed her walkie-talkie and turned it back on. “Should we get closer to the barn?”

  Kevin shook his head. “We stay right here. If the chief needs us, we don’t want to lose any time.” He squinted. The shadows were moving. Then there was a crack of light, and one-two-three figures slipped into the barn. He could hear the door slam shut from where he stood.

  Hadley toggled the walkie-talkie. “Millers Kill Two to Tac Team. Can you confirm suspects have entered the barn?”

  “That’s a confirmation, Millers Kill Two. We should just board the place up and call it a night.”

  Hadley let out a huff of amusement. She looked up to where Van Alstyne had disappeared, then at Kevin. In the dim light, he could see her nose and cheeks were red. “I don’t like the chief going after them all by himself.”

  “Neither do I.” He chafed his arms and stamped his boots. “But he knows the situation down here if he’s got the walkie-talkie on. He’ll tell us when he wants us to move.”

  “Also? I’m freezing.”

  He laughed softly. “Not the ideal first date, huh?”

  She slapped her holster. “I don’t usually go out with guys carrying and dressed in tactical gear.”

  Somehow, he was a lot closer to her face than he had been. “I know this great way to keep warm.”

  She laughed. “Oh, like I haven’t heard that one before.” Still, she tilted her head back. “What about keeping it cool on the job?”

  “It’s dark. And we’re all alone. Just you, me, and a barn full of meth manufacturers.”

  “So romantic.” She was laughing softly as his lips closed over hers. They couldn’t really get close, not in vests and parkas, and they couldn’t let their attention stray too far, but it was so sweet to be here with her like this, her mouth yielding to his, a hum of approval in the back of her throat. Sweeter, maybe, because it couldn’t be about sex or arousal. It was simply affection.

  Her walkie-talkie cracked on. “Tac Team One to Millers Kill officers. You know we have night scopes, guys. Keep it clean.”

  “Oh my God!” Hadley jerked away from him, her glove slapped over her mouth.

  Kevin laughed. Then the wide barn doors rumbled open, light spilling across the snow, and there was a deep-pitched roar, and three snowmobiles burst out of the building.

  17.

  It was a good thing Clare wasn’t claustrophobic. She lay still, her arms around Mikayla, packed in with snow, listening to the hoarse rasp of the girl’s breathing. She wondered if the child was dying, if DeJean had gotten away, if the voices she heard—far away, like a radio playing in another house—were getting closer.

  Her jeans and wool sweater were no proof against the frozen ground, and her entire back was aching with cold. That would be good. Lowering her body temperature would make it that much harder for them to see her. Until she got too cold. They call hypothermia the happy death, “Hardball” Wright, her SERE instructor, said. She didn’t feel very happy.

  A gun cracked, so close she flinched, which set her to shivering. She tried to relax her muscles, but her body wanted to warm up, and she began to shake uncontrollably. Another shot, and then they were shouting something and she heard the high-pitched yelp of a dog in pain. “Oscar.” Mikayla’s voice was a bare wisp. “Daddy.”

  Oh, God. Hector. Clare squeezed her eyes shut.

  She could picture the scene: the flare in their goggles, a man carrying a warm, living bundle. Shooting them down, then hurrying over to the bodies. They’d have to put a gun in Hector’s hand to justify their shooting. And then discovering Oscar, instead of the girl.

  More yelling. No words, just shrieks of rage and frustration. God, protect us, she prayed. She thought, for a moment, about leaving Mikayla under the snow, wrapped in her coat and the quilt. She could draw their pursuers away. But if she was killed—her shivering intensified—Mikayla could die of exposure before she was found. She felt a feather-light kick inside her, then another. Mikayla wasn’t the only child she had to protect.

  Then she heard him, a loud, commanding bellow that sent hope surging through her, as good as a blast of heat against the cold. Russ.
/>   Then nothing. She strained to hear. Should she dig herself out? What if the agents were still in the woods? They could easily bring her down before she reached the road. Excuse it as another “accident.” Were they hiding from Russ? Talking with him? The chill rushed back into her veins. He didn’t know what they were. What if they persuaded him DeJean had escaped? All they would have to do would be to get him into the woods in pursuit of DeJean. It would be easy, then, to silence Russ permanently. The gun with Hector’s fingerprints would be the one that killed him. No doubt.

  She pushed herself out of her hiding place and lurched to her feet. “Hang on, sweetheart.” She slung Mikayla over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, her parka draped over the girl for extra warmth. The girl grunted in protest. Clare saw a movement, and heard the sound of breaking ice, and turned, terrified that she had just killed them all, and nearly fell down when Oscar thudded into her legs, whining and shaking and very much alive.

  “It’s Oscar,” she whispered. “He’s okay.”

  Mikayla’s voice was thin and sleepy. “Where’s Daddy?”

  I’m very afraid your father is dead, she wanted to say. Dead because he drew the killers away from us. DeJean had been a monster, but his last act had saved her life, and Mikayla’s, and her unborn child’s.

  She took off for the road, the dog by her side. Wading through the deep snow was like moving in a nightmare, sweating, straining, never getting anywhere, until she suddenly realized she could see the glow of headlights again. She still heard nothing except her own rough breath and the crunch of snow and the creak of the forest. Were the agents standing on the road, telling Russ lies? Or were they in among the trees somewhere? Would shouting out save her? Or get her shot?

  She took a deep breath. Then another. “Russ!” She shouted loud enough to hear her own voice echoing back to her. “I have Mikayla! Don’t trust them!”

  Still nothing. She staggered forward, panting beneath the weight, closer to the light, closer, until she could see his head, above the black SUV. His hands were over his hat, his fingers laced together. Too late.