The young woman soldier turned, and Hadley saw it was Tally McNabb. The chief frowned. “What’s she doing up there with Dr. Stillman and the Stoners’ boy?”
“They’re all veterans, aren’t they? Jim Cameron’s probably planned some patriotic foolishness and these were the folks he could persuade to get up on the bandstand.” MacAuley gave Hadley a knowing look. “He’s running for reelection this year. Nothing says ‘vote for me’ like supporting the troops.”
“John Opperman’s no damn soldier.”
“Look.” MacAuley sighed. “Opperman’s announcing some new scholarship his company’s putting up for our high schoolers. Cameron’s got to know there’s bad blood between you two—”
“I’ve never discussed Opperman with him.”
“For chrissakes, Russ, you act like you smell dogshit whenever the man’s name comes up. Everybody who knows you knows how you feel. Cameron probably figures this is a good time to pour a little oil on those waters.”
“He’s throwing around money, so I’m supposed to forget what he’s done and play nice?”
“Russ—”
“No.”
“It’s a scholarship. For kids.” MacAuley frowned, his bushy gray eyebrows drawing together like miniature thunderclouds. “I’m not going to argue with you. You want to turn the mayor down, you have to go tell him yourself.”
* * *
The chief stalked away, muttering. Hadley frowned. “What was that all about?”
“A whole lot of old business.” MacAuley watched the chief for a few more seconds before turning toward her. “BWI Opperman came to build the new resort a couple years before you moved here. That was when they were just in the hotel trade, before they got into construction and what-all. Anyway, there were three partners in the business at that time, and before the place was completed, two of ’em were dead. The chief’s always been convinced John Opperman was behind it, but he couldn’t prove anything.”
“Huh. Okay.” She couldn’t help sounding doubtful. It didn’t seem very professional. Keeping an eye on someone you suspected, sure, but not acting like he burned down your house and shot your dog.
MacAuley gave her one of his deceptively lazy looks. “You’re thinking that’s not enough for him to be carrying on like this, right?”
She shrugged.
“Yeah. There’s more to it. Right before she died, Linda—his late wife—spent a week at Mr. Opperman’s private retreat in the Caribbean.”
Hadley’s mouth opened.
“She didn’t have a romance going with Opperman or anything. She worked for him, making all the fancy curtains and frilly bits for the hotel. It was just a getaway.” MacAuley’s denial was so firm Hadley figured Opperman and the late Mrs. Van Alstyne must have been going at it like crazed rabbits from dusk to dawn. “But it stuck hard in the chief’s craw. You know the intersection where her car wrecked?”
“Yeah. Eric pointed it out to me back when I was a rookie.”
MacAuley gave her a look that said, You’re still a rookie, girlie. “She was driving there because John Opperman dropped her off at the resort after the trip. He was one of the last people to see Linda Van Alstyne alive.” He pointed at the pavilion. “Huh. Looks like the mayor got him up there after all.” The chief was standing behind the soldiers, talking to the teen, turned away from the rest of the people on the stage. “Lotta folks around here owe their jobs to Opperman.” MacAuley tapped his nose. “Jim Cameron can smell which way the wind’s coming in.”
Small-town politics was definitely on her list of things to avoid. “Do you want me to walk the loop, Dep?” Every merchant along the street circling the park had a sidewalk display set up, an open invitation to snatch and run. “Patrol the shops?”
“Naw, I’ll take that. You stay here. Watch out for anybody who thinks it might be funny to set off a rocket during the speeches.” He turned away, then turned back. “And keep an eye on him. Just in case he forgets to smile and play nice.”
Mayor Cameron stepped up to the microphone stand. “Hi, everyone. I’m happy to say we’re welcoming back our veterans to a strong and growing economy, thanks in no small part to BWI Opperman, whose commitment to hire locally has made a big difference in our community’s life.” Tally McNabb dropped her head as if she would have rather been anywhere than in front of the crowd. Four days ago, she had been hiding from her husband and her boyfriend. Hadley wondered what had changed since then. “Now the CEO of BWI is here to make another commitment to our town, and to tell you about it, please welcome Millers Kill High School principal Suzanne Ovitt.”
There was enthusiastic applause as the woman in the twin set took the microphone. “Thank you. Mr. John Opperman has generously established a scholarship for four years’ tuition, room and board at any State University of New York campus.”
Holy shit. If Hudson could land that, she wouldn’t need that lousy ten bucks a week.
“The winning scholar must be a graduating senior with a strong academic record who serves his or her community and encourages others to do so. This year’s inaugural recipient of the BWI Opperman scholarship is Olivia Bain.”
More applause, along with some whooping from the winner’s friends. The oldest of the three soldiers cheered. A slim girl mounted the pavilion steps and shook Ms. Ovitt’s hand. Hadley got her first good look at John Opperman as he came forward, greeted the teen, and handed her an envelope. His clothing was expensively casual, and he boosted his middling height with three-hundred-dollar shoes. His darkish hair hadn’t been cut in any Millers Kill barbershop, that was for sure. If they had been in L.A., she would have pegged him as a corporate lawyer, with an office in Century City and a mistress in Bel Air.
“Thank you, Principal Ovitt, and congratulations to Miss Bain.” Opperman’s voice wasn’t warm, but she figured that was normal from someone more used to giving orders than speeches. “I’m pleased BWI Opperman can, in this small way, give back to the town which has so wholeheartedly taken us into its bosom.”
Hadley glanced at the chief, standing behind the soldiers. He looked like he wanted to spit.
“However, being up here with these fine representatives of the armed forces has made me realize that one scholarship is not enough.” The men and women around her who had been discussing the scholarship and the high school and the Bain girl fell silent. “Therefore, I have decided to establish a fund that will provide one thousand dollars to each and every graduate of Millers Kill High School who has had a parent serve in a combat arena.”
The crowd went wild. The teenaged soldier grinned and said something to Van Alstyne.
“Now. I understand Mayor Cameron has a certificate of appreciation to give to these brave soldiers behind me.” The mayor stepped toward the microphone, but Opperman pulled several note cards out of his back pocket and continued. “First, Lance Corporal Ethan Stoner. Ethan will be heading back to Afghanistan shortly for his second tour of duty with the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marine Division.”
The kid the chief had been talking with stepped forward, shook the mayor’s hand, and accepted an envelope. He looked at Opperman, clearly uncertain if there was more to do.
The CEO brought the mic up again. “Corporal Stoner, I’d like to add my thanks by offering you and all our honorees a complimentary weekend at the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort.” Stoner grinned and pumped Opperman’s hand until it looked as if the CEO’s gold watch might fly off.
Van Alstyne put his arms behind his back and assumed a parade rest posture. He didn’t even glance toward Opperman this time. His grudge match against the Algonquin’s owner was starting to look like a vendetta against Santa Claus.
“Dr. George Stillman is a lieutenant colonel in the National Guard and has just gotten back from his second tour of duty in Iraq.” Opperman put down the mic and clapped. Stillman seemed much more assured than the Stoner boy when he stepped up to get his certificate. Hadley thought it was weird, that a guy as old as her father could be sent off to war.
>
At the other end of the pavilion, Olivia, the outstanding senior, was bent over the railing, making come-on-up gestures. Hadley cut through the crowd until she spotted Will Ellis, talking back to the girl, shaking his head. Will could only be a year or two older than Olivia. Maybe they’d been in drama together, or band. Maybe prom dates. Now she was going off to college and he was stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but evidently Opperman could. He left the doctor and the mayor, who, having retaken the mic, was going on about “the ethos of service.”
Olivia straightened as Mr. Opperman approached. He asked her something. She shook her head. No. Opperman made a gesture, smoothing, dismissive. He turned away and spoke directly to Will. The wounded boy’s family closed ranks around his chair, blocking Hadley’s view.
The mayor glanced at Opperman before introducing Tally McNabb, but Hadley didn’t pay him any attention. The chief had given up his attempt to ignore Opperman and was glaring at the CEO. The other guy, Dr. Stillman, had come over and was talking with Opperman and Olivia. The crowd applauded at something the mayor said, Tally McNabb scooted behind the marine, and John Opperman took two steps toward the center of the pavilion and held up his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” He used what her daughter would have called “his big voice.” “It’s come to my attention that we have another veteran here today, a young hero who was gravely wounded in combat. Naturally, he doesn’t want anyone making a fuss over him, but I think bravery in the service of our freedom ought to be rewarded. What do you say?”
All around Hadley people began cheering, whistling, yelling out, “Bring him up!” and “USA! USA!” Most of the spectators couldn’t see Will, she realized. They were thinking he had been wounded and gotten better.
Her radio crackled. “Knox?”
She looked up. The chief was talking to her from the gazebo. She pulled the mic off her shoulder and raised her hand so he could see her. “Here, Chief.”
“Get over there and help the Ellises. Don’t let anybody lay hands on that wheelchair.”
He snapped his mic into place without signing off and strode toward Opperman. Hadley caught glimpses of the action as she wedged her way through the crowd toward the Ellis family. Van Alstyne’s hand coming down on Opperman’s shoulder. Turning the CEO away from the spectators. The chief’s face, like a stone wall, saying something to Opperman. Hadley reached Dr. Anne’s side as the chief plucked the microphone out of Mayor Cameron’s hand and said, “Enough.” The chanting died away. “That’s enough. You want to thank these folks, give ’em a big round of applause and let ’em go enjoy the rest of the holiday with their families.”
The crowd cheerfully complied, clapping and hooting. “Chief Van Alstyne wanted me to assist you,” Hadley yelled in Dr. Anne’s ear.
The doctor bent toward her son. “Will, let’s go.”
“No. Dammit, Mom, I want to see Colin get his award.” The kid was pale, with bright splotches over his cheeks, but his voice was steady.
“How ’bout I stand behind you and make sure your family isn’t bothered?” Hadley offered.
“Thanks. That would be great.” Dr. Anne gave her another of those tight smiles.
Hadley stepped behind Will and his dad. Just before she turned away from the gazebo, ready to present her best do-not-mess-with-me face to the rest of the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Opperman. His genial, satisfied look was gone. Instead, he was staring at the chief. The loathing and contempt in his expression raised goose bumps on Hadley’s arms. Then his face smoothed to a bland calm. Hadley shivered.
TUESDAY, JULY 5
Russ was amazed to see Clare’s car parked in the chaplain’s spot at the Washington County Hospital that night. He had only had a few minutes with her after the dog-and-pony show at the pavilion. Her face had been tired and pinched with pain, and she had assured him she would let Dr. Anne look at her injuries and then go straight home and rest. If the Fourth of July wasn’t always so crazy busy he would have carried her to the rectory himself.
Russ got out of his cruiser and released the back door. His passenger slumped sideways. Russ wrapped a hand around the young man’s arm and dragged him across the seat. “Wha?” The kid blinked at the neon EMERGENCY sign. “Wherezzat?”
Russ got the guy on his feet, held him with one hand locked over his skinny shoulder, and retrieved his backpack. “Come on, buddy. Just a little way further.”
The kid stumbled, nearly falling, as Russ steered him through the clunky double doors and up the short hall to the intake desk.
“Heya, Chief.” Alta Brewer, the head ER nurse, came out of her cubicle. “What have you got for us?”
“A drunk and disorderly call. The kid was weaving his way down Main Street thumping against storefronts.”
Alta leaned up close and sniffed. “He doesn’t smell like booze.”
“That’s why I brought him to you.” He shook the backpack with his free hand. “There’s nothing in here, so I couldn’t tell what he’s on. I figured you folks ought to have a look at him.”
Alta flicked a penlight on and peered into the kid’s enormous pupils. “Good call.” She leaned over the intake counter. “Get me a gurney,” she called to an unseen co-worker.
“Hey, I saw Reverend Fergusson’s car outside in the chaplain’s spot. Can you tell me what she’s here for?”
Alta looked up from the blood pressure cuff she was strapping to the kid’s wiry arm. “Reverend Fergusson’s back?”
“Yeah. She got in last week.” He kept his voice neutral.
Alta grinned at him as an orderly trundled a bed through the inner ER doors. “Well. I bet you’re right happy about that.”
So much for his cool outward demeanor. He helped Alta hump the semiboneless kid onto the gurney. “I’ll be right there,” Alta told the orderly as he rolled the guy—who was now making outboard motor noises—away. She wedged herself back behind the intake counter and tilted the computer monitor down. “She can’t be on call again as chaplain yet. I would have heard about it.” She punched a few keys. “Oh. Here it is. By request of the family.” She looked up at Russ. “Patient in for heart failure. Must be one of her parishioners.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Third floor, in CIC. I’m sure you remember it from your own stay.”
“Vaguely. Most of what I saw was the ceiling tiles.”
She laughed as he headed for the elevator. Upstairs, the doors opened on the central care station. He had spent a lot of time on this floor after he’d made the mistake of stepping in front of a desperate drug dealer two years ago. The shots to his chest and thigh had laid him out for a long time. The big counter looked different from an upright and unmedicated position.
One of the two nurses manning the monitor screens looked up. “Mr. Van Alstyne?” He recognized her—she had been his night shift nurse, a sturdy woman with a voice like a glass of warm milk. She had hummed sometimes, when she got busy. He had liked it. Now she left the central station, smiling, looking him up and down just a bit, as if she were still assessing his condition. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d whipped out a stethoscope. “It’s nice to see you fit and on your feet.”
“Believe me, it’s even nicer to be here under my own power.” The corridor on either side of the station was empty. Cardiac intensive care didn’t have ambulatory patients, and visitors were strictly limited. “I’m looking for Reverend Fergusson.”
The night nurse’s smile stretched into a grin. Yeah, she would have remembered Clare. He suspected ministers didn’t usually stay at a parishioner’s bedside for twenty-four hours straight.
“You’re in luck,” the nurse said. “One of the care team has just gone in to flush his shunt and tap his lines. The family should be coming out any—” Her prediction was proved true before she could finish it. Five doors down the hall, a group emerged from a room: two men in their sixties in rumpled business wear that looked like
it had been slept in, a grandmotherly sort in hospital-sensible sweats, and a tired-faced priest in black clericals with a long white satin stole about her neck. She glanced his way and stopped, blinking her surprise. She said something, low, to the family. He caught the word “cafeteria.” They drifted toward the elevators, passing behind him and the night nurse with scarcely a glance at his uniform and gun, too emotionally wrung out to be curious.
Clare limped toward him. She had traded the donated crutches for an ugly but functional hospital-issue cane, and the first thing that came out of his mouth was “Did Dr. Anne take a look at your ankle?”
She stuck her foot out. The ACE bandage had been replaced with a plastic-and-Velcro cast. “She gave me this. It makes walking a lot easier, I can tell you.”
“What about your shoulder?”
“I’m on antibiotics for that. Took my first dose this afternoon.” Her eyes shifted away.
“Really?” He didn’t try to hide his skepticism.
She looked straight at him. “I really am taking antibiotics, yes. What are you doing here?”
“Picked up some guy so stoned he couldn’t tell me his name. Thought he’d better get seen.” He shook his head. “Druggies.”
Clare glanced at the night nurse, back behind her curved counter. “Nancy? Will you let me know when Gail is done and I can go back in, please?”
“Of course I will, Reverend.”
Clare gestured with her head toward the CIC lounge across from the elevators. He resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and tote her into the room, settling for walking just behind her to catch her if she fell. The waiting room was done in early modern Valium, all mellow colors and soft lights. The well-sprung modular seating said, Stretch out here and have a nap, everything will be fine. Clare looked at the couch facing the door with distaste. “Not there. In the corner.” She limped toward a pair of chairs half-hidden behind a banana palm and dropped into one of them like a marionette who had had its strings cut.
One Was a Soldier Page 8
