I Shall Not Want

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Isabel leaned back into her pillows. Framed in white, the violet and green on her face stood out in high relief, until she seemed to be made of bruises and tired, flat eyes. “It’s our fault. Mine and my brothers’. No, I know”—she held up a hand to stop Clare’s objection—“we weren’t the ones actually tortured him to death. But we’re to blame. All of us.” She looked out the window. “Christies stick together,” she said. “That’s what we had drummed into our heads by our dad. Stick together. Watch out for one another. You wouldn’t think something that sounds so good could twist around and hurt so many people.”

  “Isabel,” Clare said, “what we talk about privately stays private. I can’t—I won’t—repeat anything you say to me. But if you know why those men came to your house and what they were after, please, please tell Deputy Chief MacAuley.”

  Isabel rolled her head toward the window. “I’m tired, now.”

  Clare stood up. The girl’s flat affect worried her. A lot. She dredged one of her cards out of her pocket. “Isabel, I’m leaving you my numbers. If there’s anything I can do for you, if you want to talk to me about anything, call me. At any time. Would you do that?”

  Isabel made a sound that was something like a laugh. “You think I might kill myself?”

  Clare thudded back into the chair. “Are you thinking about it?”

  “Suicide’s a sin. Don’t you know that?” She closed her eyes. “Please go.”

  Clare got up.

  “Wait,” Isabel said. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Uh . . . if I can.”

  “My jeans are in the closet over there. Could you get them for me?”

  Clare crossed to the closet. Wondered if a word to Isabel’s nurses would be enough, or if she ought to go straight to the social services caseworker. She handed the jeans to Isabel, who removed a very expensive-looking little cell phone from the front pocket.

  “I been carrying this around every day for months,” she said. “But I never turned it on. I wonder if there’s any battery left.”

  “Um,” Clare said. “Maybe. You may not be able to get a signal in here, though.”

  “I don’t want to use it to call. I just want the address book.”

  “The address book.” The caseworker, she decided. Isabel’s voice was too light, too disconnected.

  “I have to make arrangements,” Isabel said. “For when my brothers get out of jail.”

  XIX

  Hadley left Flynn’s duplex before dawn so she could slip into her own bed without the kids—or Granddad—noticing she hadn’t been there all night. She kissed him and whispered, “Thank you.” He reached for her sleepily, one long bare arm, but she laughed quietly and said, “No. One more time and neither of us will be able to walk.”

  She wasn’t sure she could manage it, even without an extra toss. No wonder the matrons in LA went for younger trade. Eventually, you’d croak from sheer exhaustion, but oh, my God, what a way to go.

  She drove the cruiser home, to discover MacAuley had left her a voice mail. She had a mandatory day off, courtesy of her ever-increasing overtime. She supposed it was the best excuse he could come up with. She wondered if Flynn got the same message.

  She got an hour’s sleep in before Geneva woke her up. She tried to interest the kids in the novelty of a stay-at-home day with Mommy, but Rec Camp was going to Aquaboggin—“With ice cream cones afterward, Mom!”—so she settled for a special breakfast of scrambled eggs before taking them to the middle school. On Barkley Avenue, a glint of red hair made her whip her head around, but it was just the director of the Free Clinic, unlocking the door.

  She got back home, dodged Granddad’s none-too-subtle remarks about late nights, tossed a load into the washer, and crawled back into bed as soon as he left for St. Alban’s. She dreamed; intense, erotic dreams about Flynn’s lean body and his hands all over her, and woke up reaching for him, sweaty and aroused. She curled around herself and thought, It’s just sex. It’s been a long time. Don’t be stupid. He wasn’t even her type. She liked her men edgy and artistic, with long hair and suffering eyes. Not overgrown Eagle Scouts.

  She had half a million things to do, but she wound up spending most of the day swinging on the front porch, drinking lemonade and watching bumblebees flit from the peonies to the sunflowers and back again. She called in, once, to get word on the chief. “No change,” Harlene said. “Still unconscious, still on a ventilator. But the doctor’s real hopeful.”

  Hopeful of what? That he dies before he wakes up and realizes how bad it is?

  She rocked and rocked on the narrow porch, one bare foot braced against the railing, a notebook propped against her thigh. Writing down pros and cons of staying on the force. PROS: Good pay, great benefits, only six weeks more of Basic. CONS: Could die or be disabled (insurance?), no natural ability, ugly uniform. That last was small change, but she thought she ought to put it down, to keep honest.

  She wrote co-workers under CONS, then thought for a minute and included it under PROS as well. She wrote Flynn’s name between the two lists. She added an arrow pointing to the CONS side, then another pointing to PROS. Then another, and another, until his name radiated dozens of sharp-tipped lines in every direction.

  She wrote FEAR beneath Flynn’s well-armed name. She wrote PUNTA DIABLOS under that. Then HUMVEE/HUMMER? Then 5. She slashed out the 5 and replaced it with 3.

  She stared into the heat shimmers rising off Burgoyne Street. Across the way, one of her granddad’s elderly neighbors waved. Hadley absently raised a hand.

  The crunch of tires rolling into their drive snapped her out of her thoughts. It was an Aztek. Oh, no. She glanced into the window behind her before recalling she was alone for now. She held out the hope that he was just returning something she had left behind until he rounded his truck and she saw his face, shining like the sun.

  He bounded up the steps, Romeo in baggy shorts and a MILLERS KILL MINUTEMEN T-shirt. He held a small wrapped package in one hand. Oh, hell, no. He tossed it onto the swing’s cushion and squatted in front of her, crowding the space between the swing and the railing. He grinned, half-pirate, half-moonstruck. “Hi,” he said.

  Oh, shit. This was going to be like shooting a puppy.

  “Hi,” she said. “Uh, I see you got the day off, too.”

  “We’re supposed to if we’ve been involved in a shooting. According to the regs, MacAuley should get a week off while the state investigates, but I guess nobody expected the chief and the deputy chief to both exchange fatal fire with suspects in the same incident.” The whole time he was talking like one of her instructors, he was looking at her lips, her neck, her cleavage, as if he were picking which dish on the buffet line he would dig into first.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Are your kids here?”

  “No. Nobody but me until Rec Camp gets out.” Wrong answer. Heat flared behind his eyes. Against her will and good sense, her body responded. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, some part of her that wasn’t her brain suggested. Maybe just once—or twice—more?

  “No. No, no, no.” She pointed to the empty seat beside her. “Sit.”

  He scooped up the package and sat down. The swing creaked beneath his weight. “I got this for you,” he said. He handed her the paisley-wrapped gift. She took it reluctantly. It was just the right size for a bracelet or a necklace. Heavier, though. He liked books. Oh, my God, maybe it was a collection of love poems.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said.

  He smiled, pleased with her, with himself, with the whole world. “It’s not anything.”

  “No, I mean it. You shouldn’t have.” She tucked one foot beneath her leg and turned toward him. “Flynn, I think you misunderstood what was going on last night.”

  “I was there. Believe me, I remember everything that happened.” His cheeks reddened. “It was the most—” He shook his head. “You’re the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Flynn. Thank you, t
hat’s really sweet. But it was just sex. It was”—achingly good—“lovely, but it was just sex.”

  He was shaking his head. “Don’t underestimate yourself.” He took her hand.

  Oh, Christ. This wasn’t going to be shooting a puppy. It was going to be slowly hacking it to bits with a rusty saw.

  “This can’t lead to anything,” she said, grasping at the easy way out. “You know what the chief said. Absolutely no fraternizing.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, sending an electric jolt to the base of her spine. “I think if we go to him together and explain our relationship, he’ll be okay. He’s worried about somebody hassling you, not about two people—you know . . .” He blushed again.

  She withdrew her hand. “Flynn. Kevin. Look. We don’t have a relationship.” She took a deep breath. “Yesterday, the whole thing at the Christie farm was like a horrible nightmare for me. I needed some human warmth and comfort, some . . . proof that I was alive and whole and that there was still something good in the world.” She touched his arm. “And you gave that to me. Thank you. It was wonderful. But it’s not a relationship, and it’s not going to happen again.”

  He stared at her.

  The ice-cream truck tinkled down the street, spilling calliope ragtime in its wake.

  “I don’t—” He stopped. Inhaled. “Okay. Wait. How do you feel about me? Now?”

  “I—uh, like you. You’re a nice guy. I thought you were a nice guy before.”

  He looked at her, baffled and desperate. “I’m a nice guy? But we made love! It was transcendent! It was passionate! It was—it was everything!”

  She closed her mind to the images his words conjured up. She did not want a relationship with this young man. “It was sex, Flynn.” She forced a smile. “You can’t fall in love every time you have sex.”

  His face changed. Flattened, maybe. His eyes took on a trapped expression.

  “Flynn?” A dreadful possibility wormed into her brain. “You weren’t—you have had sex before. Right?”

  He sat there, silent.

  “Oh, shit.” She slapped her hand over her forehead. “Don’t tell me you were a virgin. Oh, my God.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that.”

  “A twenty-four-year-old virgin. I didn’t think it was possible.” She looked at him. “Wait. If you were a virgin, how come you had condoms?”

  His face was bright red. “I’m inexperienced, not hopeless.”

  “Oh, my God.” She stood up. “Okay, that explains everything. You’re not in love, Flynn, you’re just pussy-struck. Get up.” She tugged at his T-shirt and he stood. “Go home and take a cold shower. This weekend, go out to a club, pick up a girl your own age, take her home and everything you did to me? Do it to her. I promise you, she’ll follow you anywhere and want to have your babies.” Her voice sounded brittle and shrill in her own ears. She shut up.

  His handsome, open face was stiff. “I’ll go home,” he said. “But I’m not picking up a girl my own age because I don’t want a girl my own age. I want you. And I may not know much about sex, but I know how I feel, and I don’t try to lie about it or cover it up or ignore it because it doesn’t happen to coincide with some sort of preprogrammed image I’ve got in my head.” He turned away. Thudded down the steps to the walkway. Turned around. Came back up four steps. “If you’re still thinking about quitting the force, don’t. You’re a good cop, and we need you.” He turned. Went down the steps again. Stopped. Turned around and came back up three steps. “I love you.” He stomped down to the walkway and was pulling out of the drive before she could begin to think of what to say to that.

  She climbed back onto the swing, crisscrossing her feet beneath her. She stared at her half-empty glass of lemonade. The notebook. The package. She picked it up and ripped the paisley paper off.

  FRACTION FLASH FOR FOURTH GRADE, the box said. Help your child master fractions in a flash!

  She tipped her head back. Struck the porch rail with her heel and set herself rocking. Oh, Flynn. She held the flash cards tight against her chest. What am I going to do about you?

  XX

  Just before leaving to pick up the kids, she looked at her lists again. Read over the notes. Thought about what Flynn had said, not today, but way back. About putting on the suit. Becoming The Man. She went into the kitchen and called the station again. She waited while Harlene bellowed for Lyle to pick up the extension. She wondered if he was sitting in the chief’s office, at the chief’s desk.

  “There’s no change,” he said.

  “It’s not about the chief,” she said. “It’s about the Punta Diablo guys. The ones at the Christies.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “They didn’t have a vehicle there. Did we pull any prints from the CFS caseworker’s car?”

  “No-o-o.”

  “So they must have been dropped off. By their friends in the Hummer.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s a warrant out for that car, and a BOLO on all the guys we think are linked to Punta Diablo. The First District AGTF is looking for ’em down in the city.”

  “Did the Christie brothers give up the list?”

  “They lawyered up. Wouldn’t say anything except they didn’t know nothin’.” He paused. “Neil’s still in county lockup, though. He’ll be there until he gets his hearing on assaulting an officer. Maybe we can cultivate a snitch.” MacAuley’s voice had taken on the considering tone she’d heard him use when he and the chief bounced ideas back and forth.

  “It was just a thought, and maybe I’m off base, but as long as that list is somewhere up here, won’t the Punta Diablos be around looking for it?”

  MacAuley’s voice was grim. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  XXI

  The congregation was standing to hear Elizabeth de Groot read the Gospel when the teenager walked into St. Alban’s.

  “And he called to him the twelve, and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits.”

  The great double doors were open to a dazzling patch of sunshine, and just inside the sanctuary, a man-high industrial-strength fan oscillated north to south and back again. Clare, trying to focus on the reading, almost missed her in the movement and glare.

  “He charged them to take nothing for their journey except a staff: no bread, no bag, no money in their belts.”

  The girl halted, glanced around, clearly unsure of what to do. Frank Williamson, one of today’s two greeters, went over to her.

  “But to wear sandals and not put on two tunics.”

  She said something to him. He nodded. Gestured toward one of the rear pews. The girl gazed about, wide-eyed, taking in the altar, the flowers, Clare, standing before the bishop’s chair. She said something else to Frank, then turned and walked back into the square of light dividing St. Alban’s from the outside world.

  “And he said to them, ‘Where you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place.’ ”

  Frank Williamson walked up the north aisle in shining leather shoes that never made a sound. Clare watched him, dread squatting like a toad in the pit of her belly. It had been four and a half days since Russ came out of surgery, and he was still in a profoundly unconscious state no one wanted to call a coma.

  “ ‘And if any place will not receive you, and they refuse to hear you, when you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet for a testimony against them.’ ”

  Frank disappeared around the side of the organ. A moment later he reappeared, quiet, self-effacing, headed back to his post.

  “So they went out, and preached that men should repent.”

  Betsy Young rose smoothly from her bench. She glided across the choir, crisp in red cassock and white surplice, bowing before the crucifix at the high altar. She stopped next to Clare.

  “And they cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them.”

&nbs
p; “Russ Van Alstyne’s niece brought you a message,” the music director said in a low voice. “He’s woken up and he’s responding to stimulus.”

  “The Gospel of the Lord,” Elizabeth concluded.

  “Praise to you, Lord Christ.” Clare’s whisper was lost in the congregation’s response.

  XXII

  The CCU waiting room was wall-to-wall by the time Clare got there. She was trailed by Mrs. Marshall and Norm Madsen and Dr. Anne, who squeezed in with Janet and Mike, their three daughters and Roxanne Lunt—“You know we’re both on the board of the Historical Society, don’t you? I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Margy Van Alstyne’s cousin Nane, several elderly Miss and Mrs. Bains, his high-school friends Wayne and Mindy Stoner. Jim Cameron and his wife, Lena—although Janet whispered, “He’s just here to see if they’re going to have to pay out on Russ’s short-term disability insurance.” Noble Entwhistle and Paul Urquhart, and Harlene Lendrum, escorting a potato-faced man with the biggest, hairiest ears Clare had ever seen. “Have you met my husband, Harold?”

  Eventually, Margy Van Alstyne came into the waiting room, looking as if she, and not her son, had returned from the dead. People straightened, stood, smiled as she glanced from face to face, looking for the next visitor to be allowed in the CCU. Her eyes came to rest on Clare. “There you are,” she said. “Don’t just stand there. He’s been asking for you.”

  “Wantin’ to confess his sins, no doubt,” Harlene said.

  Clare could feel her face heating up as she threaded her way through the crowd, but the smiles around her were generous, wholehearted. If she was destined to play out her life center stage in a small town, at least she had a forgiving audience.

  The room seemed larger without the ventilator apparatus. Russ still had an IV running into one arm, but his nasogastric tube was gone. He was pale, with deep purple shadows beneath tired eyes. Bits of adhesive stuck to his five-day beard, and his hair badly needed washing.