I Shall Not Want

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  She stood at his bedside, so full she couldn’t speak.

  “Hi,” he said. His voice was weak, raspy.

  “Hi,” she said. She smiled. Brushed his forehead. Touched his cheek. “I thought you’d left me.”

  “No.”

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  He smiled faintly. “Turnabout . . .”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for those horrible things I said to you. I didn’t mean it. Not any of it.”

  “Liar.”

  She laughed a laugh that was very close to a sob. “All right, I meant some of it. But not that I hated you. I love you. I’ve loved you from the very start. I will always love you.”

  “I know.” He inhaled slowly, as if it hurt to breathe. “I knew.”

  “Let’s not ever fight again.”

  He closed his eyes, still smiling. “Fat chance.” He shifted, a small movement, and his lips went white.

  “You’re in pain. Let me get the nurse.”

  “Not yet.” He opened his eyes again. Held up one hand, taped and tubed and bruised.

  She took it, gingerly. “Holding on.”

  He squeezed. “Not letting go.”

  XXIII

  Clare ran into Hadley Knox when she went for coffee. She had kept to her five-minute limit in Russ’s room, turning her spot over to the Stoners, then huddled with Margy, who gave her the doctors’ latest prognosis.

  She didn’t expect another chance to see him—that would be selfish, considering how many were waiting to go into the CCU—but she wanted to hang around, to talk with other people who cared for him, to see her relief and happiness reflected in other eyes.

  But happy or not, she needed her caffeine fix. Apparently, Hadley did, too. She was standing in front of the lobby coffee-tea-hot chocolate dispenser as Clare walked by. “Don’t do it,” Clare said.

  Hadley looked up. “What?”

  “That stuff is to real coffee as Cheez Whiz is to good English cheddar. Come to the cafeteria with me, they have a couple of decent grinds down there.”

  Hadley fell into step with her. “Have you seen the chief yet?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He looks like hell.”

  Hadley laughed. “Then why are you grinning like that?”

  “Because it feels like Christmas and Easter rolled into one?” Clare pushed the cafeteria door open. “He is risen, he is risen,” she sang. “Tell it out with joyful voice!” She dropped back into normal speech. “Actually, it’ll be some time before he rises. The doctors say he’s facing a long period of recovery and rehab. But,” she stressed, “he shows no sign of brain damage. And the bullets missed his spine, so he should recover all normal physical functions.”

  “All normal physical functions.”

  “Yep.”

  Hadley’s lips twitched. Clare led her to the coffee urns. She found herself humming, “The Day of Resurrection,” as she loaded her Sumatran Dark with sugar.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Hadley snapped a thermal top over her milkless, sugarless cup.

  “You sure can.”

  “You’re a—I’m not trying to get personal here, but there’s a pretty big age difference between you and the chief, isn’t there?”

  “Thirteen or fourteen years. I guess some people would call that a pretty big difference.” She blew across the top of her coffee. “My parents would.” It hit her, then. Sooner or later, Mother and Daddy would have to meet Russ. Ugh.

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “What, that he remembers the Beatles and I don’t? Not particularly.”

  Hadley frowned. Clare set her cup down next to the napkin dispenser. This wasn’t just curiosity. For some reason, Clare’s answer was important to Hadley. “Okay. Seriously.” She thought for a moment. “I wish I could have known him when he was young. To see who he was then. And I wish I hadn’t missed so many of the events that shaped his life. I turned five during his tour of duty in Vietnam. That’s . . . a little daunting. But for the rest of it?” She smiled. “We have so many differences that have nothing to do with age that I don’t spend much time thinking about it.”

  Hadley pulled a plastic stirrer from the rack and began to fold it into small pieces. “But what about the future? Don’t you worry you’ll be, you know, turned off when he gets old and saggy?”

  Clare laughed. “Hadley, we all get old and saggy sooner or later.” She sobered. “If we live that long.” A possible reason for this odd line of questioning popped into her head. “Have you—are you and Lyle—”

  “No! Oh, my God, he’s older than my father. Oh, yech. Besides which he’s, like, my boss. Double yech.” She patted her pockets. “Let’s pay for these and get back. I’m sorry. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me.”

  “Sounds like a good trait for a police officer.” Clare handed the cashier a five. “This one’s on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Not if it’s about Lyle MacAuley.” Hadley shuddered.

  Clare took her change and gestured toward the door. “The vestry’s agreed to pay for the mortuary expenses and the cost of returning Amado Esfuentes’s body to Mexico.” After considerable arm twisting. “Kilmer’s Funeral Home can take care of everything, but I need to know his next of kin and how to contact them. Do you guys have that?”

  “No. We didn’t take it when we questioned him. There’re a stack of official forms that need to be filled out, but we haven’t tackled them yet.”

  “Would you come with me to the McGeochs, then? Tomorrow? I want to ask his friends if they want a memorial service here, but I don’t speak Spanish.” She held the door open and sprinkled a little sugar in her voice. “We could both get the information we need.”

  “I’m on patrol tomorrow.”

  “After work? Or lunchtime?”

  Hadley sighed. “Okay. Lunch.”

  “Thanks.” Clare winked. “I promise I won’t tell Lyle about your mad crush.”

  “Oh, my God! Reverend Clare!”

  XXIV

  This time, Clare arranged the visit with the McGeochs first. “Oh, yes, please.” Janet flapped the stack of forms she’d gotten from the financial office. “I know they’ve all been sick with worry and grief, but I’ve been so caught up with everything going on here”—she waved at the CCU waiting room—“I haven’t had a chance to think about what the men might want to do. I’ll talk with Octavio. He’ll have them ready for you.”

  When she pulled into the deserted barnyard the next day, Clare realized she should have asked where he’d have them ready. The noonday heat buffeted her when she got out of the car, making her converted-to-clericals sundress—a loose linen shift falling from dog collar to ankles—feel like a burka. She retrieved a sack of deli sandwiches and a small cooler of drinks from her backseat. Shut the door. Turned at the sound of tires and saw Hadley’s squad car swinging into the barnyard. Dust tumbled behind her wheels as she rolled to a stop next to Clare.

  “I don’t suppose the barn is air-conditioned,” Hadley said, by way of a greeting.

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  “Here, let me take one of those.” Hadley hoisted the cooler. “You brought lunch?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to miss out because of the meeting.” Clare took a step away from Hadley. “iHola!” she shouted. “Octavio?”

  There was a faint sound of voices in response. “That way.” Hadley pointed. They headed for the far side of the barn. “God, it’s hot. I don’t remember it being this warm when I summered here as a kid.”

  “You weren’t in a uniform and boots when you were a kid.”

  “Yeah”—she sounded disgruntled—“well. . . .”

  They rounded the corner. The men sat at the far end of the barn, in the double shade of its three stories and its silo. Behind them, a two-rut lane ran past a cornfield and disappeared down a slope toward the old farmhouse. Clare could see i
ts roof, floating above the sheaves.

  “Hola.” The workers were clustered in a ragged semicircle, bagged lunches spread out on the lush grass. Clare set her offering in the middle and plopped down, facing them. Decided the coolness of the spot made up for the smell of manure pervading the air. Hadley opened the cooler, took out a bottle of water, and lowered herself carefully, wrestling the bits and pieces of her gun belt out of her way.

  “Go ahead,” she said, twisting the top off the water. “You talk, I’ll translate.”

  Clare took a deep breath. “Amado’s death is a great loss,” she began.

  One of the men cut her off with a sharply worded question. Hadley answered him. He said something else, angry, accusing. Hadley replied at length, measuring out her words, her voice patient.

  It was Octavio, Clare realized. The foreman. She had noticed his resemblance to Amado the first time she met him. Had thought then they might be related. “What’s going on?” she asked Hadley.

  “He wants to know what’s happening with the investigation. How come we haven’t caught Amado’s killers yet.”

  “Ask him if he’s one of Amado’s family.”

  “¿Sois parientes?” Hadley said.

  “¿Emparentado? ¿Emparentado?” He sprang to his feet. “Yo soy Amado Esfuentes. Mí.”

  What in the world?

  Hadley’s mouth opened. “He says—”

  “I got that. Who was my Amado, then?”

  Octavio—the real Amado—didn’t need that translated. “Mi hermano. Mi hermano, Octavio.”

  “Brothers,” Hadley said, before rattling off another question. Amado’s face twisted as he answered her. He spread his hands. His tone, his pain, translated for him. I thought I was doing the right thing.

  “He was the one with the employment papers,” Hadley said. “He swapped them with his little brother the night of the accident, so Amado—Octavio—wouldn’t be deported.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” She had been there, just where Amado was, eating the bitter fruit of good intentions. It was a meal that lodged in your throat and never went away. “Lo siento, Amado. I am so, so sorry.”

  Hadley asked him a question. Clare caught the words “Punta Diablos.” Amado frowned. Said something. Clare caught the word “Christies.” Hadley replied to him.

  “What?” Clare asked.

  “I’m trying to find out if he knew why the Punta Diablos were interested in his brother. He’s confused. He was under the impression the Christies killed Amado—Octavio. Damn, I’m never going to keep the names straight.”

  “Nobody told them?”

  “We had other things going on!”

  “What about Isabel Christie?” Clare wondered. “Did she—”

  Amado tensed. “Isobel?”

  She had said to Russ, He can’t say boo to a woman. She had said to Lyle, So there was something there. Clare met Amado’s dark eyes. “You.” She pointed to him. “It was you and Isabel.”

  His gaze shifted away. He glanced at the men sitting around them, their faces divided between worry and interest. Hadley stood. “Amado,” she began. Clare got to her feet as well, wishing like hell her languages weren’t limited to written Greek and Hebrew. With dictionaries by her side.

  She was good at reading faces, though. As Hadley spoke, Amado’s altered, from stony to pained, to horrified. He was hearing how his brother died. Clare laid her hand on Hadley’s arm. “Go easy,” she said.

  “I want him to understand what’s at stake. There are more of those guys out there. If he knows anything, we have to have it.”

  Amado straightened. He looked at the sky, the blue leached away in the heat of the sun. He looked at the other men. He looked at Hadley. “Come.” He turned and strode toward the bunkhouse.

  “What?” Clare said, hurrying to catch up.

  “I don’t know.” Hadley hustled after her. The grass in the lane was brittle, the strawflowers and Queen Anne’s lace already dry. The corn was stunted, with dull, cracked leaves.

  “Tell him what I say, okay?” Clare lengthened her stride. “Amado. I met Isabel in the hospital. Did you know she had been wounded?”

  Hadley spoke. Amado stumbled. Glanced over his shoulder at her. Resumed walking. “She is okay?”

  “She was released on Friday.” She paused, just long enough for Hadley to translate. “She thinks you’re dead. It hit her hard. Very hard.” She thought of the young woman’s blank face while Hadley spoke and Amado replied in a low voice. The sense that Isabel had gone beyond caring.

  “He says it’s just as well.” Hadley skip-hopped to keep up with them. They crested the rise. Below them, a thread of water trickled across the lane through a stony streambed. The bunkhouse baked in the sun beside it. “He says she’s not for him and he’s not for her. I dunno. Maybe she spun a romance out of a few meaningful glances?”

  “I don’t think so.” Clare plunged forward and grabbed Amado’s arm before he could enter the old farmhouse. Tugged him around to face her. She touched the silver cross hanging beneath her collar. Hoped the black and white would have an effect on him, even if she was an Anglican woman, and not a Roman man. “What if she’s pregnant?”

  Hadley copied her authoritarian tone.

  Amado’s mouth opened. “¿Embarazada?” He looked terrified and hopeful.

  “Oh-ho,” Hadley said. “You nailed that one on the head.”

  “Tell him I don’t know. But he needs to come with me and let her see he’s still alive. If he wants to break it off with her after that, fine.”

  He smoothed over his initial shock and listened to Hadley’s translation with an impassive face. He looked at Clare. She stared back. “Okay,” he finally said. “I go with you. For good-bye.” He nodded stiffly and disappeared into the bunkhouse.

  “Huh.” Hadley propped her hand on her hip and fanned her face. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Or the man, in this case.”

  “I’m not trying to play Cupid. I was worried enough about Isabel’s state of mind to put in a word with the hospital counseling folks. She blames herself for Amado’s death—Octavio’s death. You know what I mean. I think seeing him alive and well will let her forgive herself for accidentally setting her brothers on him. On his brother.” She batted away a buzzing fly. “Whatever.”

  “Speaking of brothers, have you considered they might not be too thrilled if you bring yet another Latino guy to their farm?”

  “I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

  “Don’t you mean—” The sun-blistered door creaked open. Amado stepped out.

  “Here.” He thrust something at Hadley. “Esto es lo qué deséo el Punta Diablos.” He sounded like a soldier at last laying down his arms.

  Hadley stared at the black-and-white composition book in her hands. She flipped it open. Ran one finger down a handwritten page. “Holy shit.” She looked up at Clare. “The chief was right. It’s the distribution list.”

  XXV

  Clare eased her car up the Christies’ drive like a woman easing her way into the haunted house at the county fair. She knew there was nothing to be afraid of. But the sights, the smells, her sense of what-might-have-happened made her heart pound as she parked on the dusty grass and approached the porch steps.

  Amado was an indistinct figure in her Subaru, waiting behind tinted windows. She had left the engine running, as much for a quick getaway as for the air-conditioning. She was lucky she had him with her—Hadley had been all for dragging him back to the station for formal questioning. Amado dug in his heels, saying only that he had found the notebook nearby and that he’d tell the police everything he knew after he had seen Isabel. Hadley had been torn between accompanying him and Clare and delivering the list to the station—so torn she had shifted back and forth, back and forth, on the balls of her feet, poised at her cruiser’s door.

  “I promise,” Clare said. “I’ll bring him in to you as soon as we’re done at the Christie place.” Which would also give her time to call Sis
ter Lucia and set her to find a Spanish-speaking lawyer. Russ would have never gone for it, but Hadley, flushed with triumph, her fingers leaving damp prints all over the MKPD’s biggest haul of the year, was an easier touch.

  Now, approaching the weathered mahogany door she had last seen flung open for cops and EMTs, she wondered if it might not have been a better idea to wait, to have come up here after he was questioned, with Hadley and Kevin Flynn and maybe even Lyle MacAuley in tow. Too late now.

  “Fly or die,” she said to herself, pressing the bell.

  The shirred curtains in the window shivered. The door opened a handbreadth. A thin teenaged girl peered out. “Yeah?”

  It wasn’t what Clare had been bracing for. “Um. I would like to see Isabel.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m Clare Fergusson. I”—the specter of Pastor Bob caused a midcourse correction—“am the chaplain who spoke with Isabel at the hospital. I wanted to see how she was doing.”

  “She’s fine.” The door swung.

  Clare stuck her foot in the jamb. “I’d like to hear that from her.”

  “You can’t.” The girl pushed the door a few times, but Clare’s lug-soled sandal didn’t move.

  “Are you Porsche?” The girl looked more like a Chevy Nova, but Clare hadn’t named her.

  “Yeah.”

  “Porsche, your aunt told me that Christies stick together. That you help each other. Is that true?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then please let me speak to her. I promise you, you’ll be helping her.”

  The girl looked at Clare’s foot. She released the door, letting it drift open. “She’s not here. I’m”—she checked behind her, as if someone might overhear—“worried about her. Dad and Uncle Bruce and Uncle Neil took the van and drove off, and as soon as they were gone, Izzy was on the phone with somebody. Then the next thing I know, this chrome-flap Hummer pulls in the yard and Izzy’s out the door.”

  “And that worried you because—?”

  “There were Mexicans in it! I almost went and grabbed a gun, ’cause Dad said we ever see another Mexican on our land, we better shoot to kill!”