In the Bleak Midwinter

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  He waded into the forest, sweeping his light around in 180 degree arcs, listening for anything that might indicate the presence of another human being. The cold pinched at his face. He thought of Clare, underdressed for the weather as usual, slogging deeper and deeper into the woods, slowly freezing to death. A hundred paces into the trees, he angled back toward the road, traveling downhill. If someone had been shooting, she must be around here. Noise traveled far in the mountains, but that shot had been close. Too damn close. He held up his arm to fend off lashing branches of bittersweet, trying not to picture her lying in a crumpled heap, her blood staining the snow red.

  He angled again, away from the road, pushing through pines and hemlock. It was important to be methodical, not to give into the urge to run around yelling. A long zigzag pattern, working his way downhill because that’s the direction most lost folks take, his light shining like a beacon.

  He heard nothing except his own breathing and the sweep and stretch of snow over the mountain. His throat closed over the fear rising in his gorge. Not the fear that he might get drilled by whoever else was out here with a gun. Fear that Clare was gone for good.

  The flashlight beam hit him straight in the eyes, blinding him. He yelped involuntarily, so startled his mind went blank. His body knew how to think for him, though, dropping into the snow and sighting the rifle toward the other light.

  “Russ?” Her voice was weak and cracking from the cold.

  “Clare?” He scrambled back to his feet, swinging his flashlight in her direction. “Oh, my God. Clare.” She staggered toward him. He crossed the distance first, catching her in his arms, the rifle and flashlight clunking together as he picked her up off the ground. “Clare. Jesus, are you all right? Were you hit?”

  “My feet . . . I can’t feel my feet anymore.”

  He released her to shine the light over her again. Her face was raw, chapped and scratched. Thank God she had been wearing a departmental parka. It looked as if it were holding up, but her pants were wet up to her thighs and chunks of ice and caked snow were frozen to her flimsy boots. He flashed the light up again.

  “What the hell are you doing with hunting boots hung over your shoulder?” She opened her mouth. “No, don’t tell me now. My truck’s about seventy yards away. I can carry you, but I think we’ll be faster and steadier if you can walk.”

  She nodded. “I can walk,” she said.

  He looked around them. “The shooter—is he close? Did you get a look at him?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t see his face. He’s—” She rubbed her eyes with a snow-clotted glove and blinked hard. “I don’t know if he’s close by. He’s unarmed, though. He lost his gun when I took him out.”

  He hung the rifle strap on his shoulder and took her arm, shining his flashlight toward the way out of the woods. “You took him out? What do you mean?”

  She clutched at his arm, but otherwise walked steadily. “I knocked him down with a sapling tree and bashed him with a rock. I couldn’t find his gun, but I took his flashlight and his boots.”

  He helped her over a fallen log. “You took his flashlight and his boots.”

  “I wanted to find his car keys but he wasn’t carrying them. I was . . .” She gulped air. “I was working my way back to the road. To find his car or whatever. Snowmobile.” He tightened his grip on her arm. She gulped again. “But I was going the other way when I saw your light, Russ. I was going the wrong way.” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was headed for the road, but I must have gotten turned around. I would have . . . I would have just kept on walking . . .”

  Up ahead, he saw a flash where the light caught metal. “Almost there.” He couldn’t see her face. Only the fur encircling the hood. He forced himself to speak confidently. “You wouldn’t have kept on walking, darlin’. You’re too smart. You would have dug in, covered yourself up. Probably figured out some way to build a fire. With pine needles and a gum wrapper.”

  She made a dry sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. He could see his truck clearly now. “C’mon, let me take you up.” He picked her off the ground and settled her against his shoulder, grunting with the effort. “Good God, woman, what are you wearing, lead-lined pants?” She made the sound again, this time more a laugh.

  At the truck, he opened the passenger’s door first and helped her in. Climbing into the driver’s side, he almost laid the rifle in the backseat again, then thought better and slid it bore-down next to the door, within a moment’s reach. He fired up the engine and turned on the dome light before rummaging in the back for his two spare blankets. “Okay, darlin’, let’s get your wet things off.”

  She nodded jerkily. She pulled off her sodden gloves and dropped them on the floor, but she couldn’t manage the snap and zipper at her neck. “My fingers,” she said.

  He nodded. “We need to take a look at your feet first anyway.” He lifted her stiff, ice-encrusted boots into his lap. “What the hell did you do to get these so wet?” The laces were unmanagable. He flipped open the glove compartment and removed his knife.

  “I . . . ran through a stream. Only fast way to . . . get to the spot I picked to . . . ambush him.” She shivered violently as he sliced her laces away and gently wiggled each boot off. “I’m so cold . . .”

  He adjusted the vents to blow on her. The hot air was already blasting at top speed. He carefully peeled away her socks, sucking in his breath at the sight of the blotchy white patches mottling blueish skin. Jesus. How had she hiked through the woods like this? Under his hands the flesh felt like heavy clay that had been stored in a refrigerator. “Oh, darlin’,” he said.

  “Is it bad?” He looked at her. “Tell me the truth, Russ.”

  “It doesn’t look like frostbite, but we’re going to have to soak your feet in cool water and bring ’em up to temperature slowly. Here, let’s get those pants off you.” He tried to be gentle, but he had to tug and wrestle the stiff, wet khaki off her, each jerk and twist causing her to gasp. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Clare.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s good. It’s burning. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Means the blood is coming back.” The skin on her legs was alarmingly cold and pale, but there were no signs of frostbite there, either. He cocooned her feet and legs in one of the blankets. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch when you get circulation going. Like when your leg falls asleep, but lots worse.” He kept her legs resting on his thighs while he went to work on the parka, unbuttoning and unzipping. Underneath, her woolly turtleneck was dry. He wrapped the second blanket around her, chafed her hands between his own. “How do they feel?”

  “Cold. Like the rest of me.”

  “Can you feel this?” He ran his fingertips lightly down her fingers and across her palm.

  She looked at him. Her eyes were huge and dark. Her fingers flexed over his. “Yes,” she whispered. The hot air roared past him, stirring staticky cobwebs of her hair. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. She raised her free hand as if she would touch his cheek, then let it fall. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She blinked against the watery light in her eyes. “I was such a jerk last night. I’m sorry, you were right, you were right about everything.”

  He dropped his gaze to her hand, picked up the other one and began rubbing them vigorously. “Maybe. But I shouldn’t have been such a hard ass about it.” He smiled at her. “And I wasn’t right about everything. Ballistics came back negative on their gun. We’re still waiting to hear about the hair and fiber samples from their cars.” He looked at her extraordinary face, laced by angry scratches and chafed raw by the snow and cold. He squeezed her hands hard. “I was right about one thing, though. This isn’t any business of yours. Jesus, Clare, you could have died out there!”

  She smiled waveringly. “Not me. I’m too smart.”

  He released her hands, swinging her feet to the floor. He reached around her and buckled her in. “Let’s get you someplace warm, smart girl.”r />
  The truck strained and groaned before lurching from the ditch and turning slowly back down the road. “What about the man who attacked me?” Clare asked.

  Russ kept his attention on the road. “What about him?”

  “Aren’t you going to try to find him? Or at least find his vehicle?”

  He spared her a glance. “Do you have any idea where he is? Or where his truck or snowmobile is?”

  “No.”

  “And he doesn’t have any boots on?”

  “No.”

  “You said you couldn’t see his face?”

  “No! He had one of those face masks on, and I tried to get it off, but the damn thing was stuck!” She snorted. “Then he started to wake up and I thought I’d be better served getting the heck out of there.”

  “Good girl. And the answer is no, I’m not going after him. I could turn out the National Guard and we’d still never find him in this weather. My first priority is to get you thawed out. We can be at the Glens Falls Hospital in half an hour if the county’s gotten the plows out.”

  “No. No hospital. I don’t like hospitals.”

  “You go to hospitals all the time, for Chrissake!”

  “Not for myself!” She had an edge of hysteria to her voice. He shut up. “Just take me home, Russ,” she said. “Please.”

  “Okay, darlin’. Home it is.” He downshifted in preparation for churning the truck out of the snow and leaf-filled gully. And then I’m going to get someone to take a look at you if I have to knock you down and sit on you to do it.

  CHAPTER 26

  They didn’t talk much on the ride back to Millers Kill. Clare leaned back against the seat, exhausted, her mouth thinning occasionally when they went over a bump. He knew her legs must be hurting. Despite his sensible words, he was sorely tempted to round up as many men as he could and scour the mountain for the sonofabitch who had done this to her. But he had been right, it would be a waste of time at this point. Either the guy had found his way back to his vehicle or he was losing his feet to exposure someplace.

  He glanced over at Clare. Knocked him down with a tree and bashed him with a rock. Jesus. He smiled a little.

  When they pulled into her driveway, he said, “Keys?”

  “I left them in my car. But don’t worry, it’s—”

  “Unlocked. Of course.” She didn’t argue when he opened her door and picked her up to carry her inside. He grunted as they went up the steps. “Don’t make a habit of this, Clare, or I’m going to have to buy a truss.”

  Inside, he deposited her blanket-wrapped form on the sofa and cranked up the thermostat. “Okay,” he said, “You need dry clothes, a tub of tepid water to soak those feet in—” She groaned loudly at the suggestion. “—and something warm to drink. Not coffee, the caffeine’s bad for your circulation.”

  “Hot cocoa?”

  “That’s fine. Where can I find stuff?”

  She gave him directions. Her bedroom was spartan, nothing but bed, dresser, and her Army sweats tossed over some wooden kneeler-prayer-thingy in front of the uncurtained window. He grabbed the sweats and dropped them next to her on the sofa before hitting the kitchen to find the cocoa ingredients. No bags of instant, of course. He put the milk on to heat and rummaged beneath the sink for a plastic tub, which he filled with lukewarm water.

  “You decent?” he called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah.”

  He walked slowly, careful not to slosh the water. “Stick your feet in there,” he said, settling the tub in front of the sofa. She pulled the legs of her sweatpants up a bit and complied.

  “It feels warm.” She looked surprised.

  “That’s because your feet are so damn cold. I don’t have to do anything like hand-grate imported bittersweet chocolate and hazelnuts for this hot cocoa, do I?”

  She made a face. “Just sugar and cocoa. Oh, and a drop of vanilla extract is nice.”

  “I have to introduce you to the Kreemie Kakes Diner version of hot chocolate.” He found everything quickly. Like her office, her kitchen was orderly and well-organized. She was a woman who had her priorities, no doubt about it.

  “Here you go.” He put two mugs on the coffee table, then crossed to the front window and tested to see if the tops locked.

  She craned her neck to see what he was up to. “What are you doing?”

  “Locking you in.” He moved to the front door, threw the bolt and latched it at the top. “Who can I call to come and stay with you tonight?”

  “Russ!” She sounded scandalized. “I couldn’t impose on anyone like that.”

  He turned to her. “Clare, someone put a lot of effort into killing you tonight. Let’s not make it any easier for him to take a second crack at you.”

  “But he’s—”

  “We don’t know what he is. The guy who attacked you might be a Popsicle right now. Or he might have gotten onto his snowmobile and ridden away. And don’t forget whoever that woman was who called the church to get you out there.”

  She worried her lower lip. “All right. You can make sure the doors and windows are all locked,” she said. “But I don’t know anyone well enough to ask over. It would be an imposition.”

  “Your mother teach you that? You sound very Southern when you say ‘an imposition.’ ” He crossed the room to stand in front of her sofa. “You’re exhausted and you can barely walk. You think of someone you can ‘impose’ on right quick like or I’ll station one of my officers here.” She glared at him. “Which will mean taking someone away from traffic duty during a major storm.”

  Her face melted into a look of concern. She gnawed on her lower lip again. “Doctor Anne,” she said finally. “Anne Vining-Ellis. She lives a couple blocks away.”

  “She the same Doctor Anne who works the Glens Falls emergency room?” Clare nodded. “I’ve met her. I’ll give her a call.” There was a cordless phone on the table behind the sofa. He dialed information, punched in the number and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to check the upstairs windows,” he told Clare.

  “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” she said.

  “Hello, Ellis residence.” He jiggled the latches in Clare’s bedroom. Locked.

  “Hi, is this Dr. Vining-Ellis?”

  “Sure is.”

  Another bedroom was empty except for a Nordictrak exercise machine and a floormat. The windows were locked.

  “This is Chief Van Alstyne of the Millers Kill Police Department. We’ve met a few times before—”

  “Over a few drunk drivers. Of course. How can I help you, Chief?”

  He sketched out the situation while testing the latches in the next bedroom. It looked as if it had been a guest room for the former priest, and nothing had been removed. He was pretty sure the gun and dog prints and the dark Depression-era furniture weren’t Clare’s. Doctor Anne was horrified at the story of her priest’s ordeal. “Of course I’ll come over and stay with her,” she said. “It’s absolutely no trouble at all. I’ll bring my kit and give her a going-over, too, just to make sure she doesn’t need to be admitted to the hospital.”

  He thanked the doctor and rang off. One of the windows in the bathroom was propped open a sliver. A fine line of snow had accumulated on the sill. He shut and locked it. The toilet was running, and he couldn’t get it to stop by jiggling the handle. Inside the cistern, the plunging apparatus was falling apart. He frowned. Couldn’t her parishioners pay for a plumber, for Chrissakes? Well, he could pick up something at Tim’s Hardware, put it in for her next time he was around this way.

  “Doctor Anne’s on her way over,” he announced as he reentered the living room. Clare groaned. “And she said to tell you it was not an imposition.” He stuck his hand in the water her feet were soaking in. Cooling. “So, you wanna tell me about what happened?” He headed into the kitchen for more hot water.

  “Master Sergeant Ashley ‘Hardball’ Wright saved my sorry ass,” she called after him.

  He poked his head through the swin
ging doors before emerging with a teakettle of hot water. “Hey! I thought I saved your sorry ass.”

  She smiled faintly. “You helped. You surely did help.” She sipped her hot cocoa and dabbled her feet while he poured a thin stream of steaming hot water into the tub. “How on earth did you know I was out there?”

  He told her about finding the paper trail at St. Alban’s and calling Kristen.

  “So she didn’t have anything to do with it. Well, I didn’t think so, not after that guy took a shot at me.” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Although before that, when I drove my car over a cliff, I had my doubts. Maybe she was just really bad at directions.”

  “You drove your car over a cliff? Christ.”

  She frowned.

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t quite a cliff. A big gorge. My car is totaled.” She compressed her lips in an expression he was beginning to recognize. “I loved that car. I don’t get attached to many material things, but I really loved that car.”

  “You have any idea who could have been behind this?”

  “How about this? This morning, I found out that Katie’s secret lover was Wesley Fowler. His family are members of the congregation. And about as far from the McWhorter’s as you can get, socially, culturally, economically . . .”

  “How the hell did you get that piece of information?”

  She told him about her visit to Paul’s office at the Infirmary and the photograph. “It’s still in the pocket of my parka. Your parka,” she amended. “I visited the Fowlers to see if they knew anything about it, which they didn’t, unsurprisingly. Then I went to Albany.”

  “Albany?”

  “I wanted to see if Katie’s roommates might recognize Wesley’s picture.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know, Clare, the Albany PD already questioned at least two of the roommates.”