Page 1 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
PROLOGUE
THE SATURDAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING
The trouble started, as it so often does, behind the manure spreader. The Greenwich Annual Lighted Tractor Parade was in full swing, and this particular spreader, scrubbed until not a molecule of offending odor could cling to its metal, was brilliant with twining, interlaced lights—the publicity for the parade had promised a million, and the owners of the heavy-duty machine were doing their part. The tractor pulling the trailer was equally festooned, and in addition sported a banner, lit by a spotlight, that proclaimedSPREADING CHRISTMAS CHEER!
“Who needs the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade?” PJ Adams asked. The animal control officer for the nearby town of Millers Kill, PJ held a yearly open house for the Greenwich event. Her two-hundred-year-old Georgian home was stuffed with friends, family, and fellow municipal employees, some inside keeping company around the groaning buffet board, some warming themselves by a roaring fire pit in the yard, and some, like the Rev. Clare Fergusson and her husband, clustered together on a low side porch lit with hanging paper lanterns.
Russ Van Alstyne huffed a laugh into his mug of hot cider. At his feet, Oscar, their Lab mix, made the same sound. At the Adams house, everyone was welcome: kids, cats, dogs, and, Clare thought gratefully, unemployed ex–police chiefs.
“Let me take the baby so you can get one, too, Clare.” PJ hefted the eight-month-old. “You’re getting to be a big boy, Ethan!” She joined Clare at the drinks table, where slow cookers simmered with ciderand mulled wine. “So… how is Russ doing? Really? Nobody’s seen him at the town offices since Election Day.”
Clare took a deep sniff of the spiced wine, pushed the alcoholic temptation away, and ladled cider into a mug. “I don’t think he regrets resigning from the force. It accomplished what he wanted, after all. The Algonquin Resort waived their tax deal with the town and the police department was saved.”
“So, yay, yes, but…”
“But Russ has been a cop for thirty years, since he was a shaved-headed kid in the army. It’s such a fundamental part of who he is.”
PJ kissed Ethan’s fat cheek. “You know there are other towns in New York that would be thrilled to hire a police chief with his experience.”
“Which would mean leaving Millers Kill.” Clare shook her head. “That town is bred into him body and bone.”
“Oh, I get it.” PJ handed the baby back to her. “It can be hard to make a living around here, but I can’t imagine leaving either.”
“Kids! Kids!” The woman standing on Russ’s other side leaned over the railing, waving to a group of tweens by the fire. “They’re handing out candy! Go get some!” The people following the manure spreader were indeed tossing candy into the crowds along the sidewalk, boosting excitement for their otherwise less-than-impressive float: a single tractor sporting chicken-wire frames winging out on either side. There were plenty of lights, though, wrapped around the chassis and hanging from the frames, although from her angle, Clare couldn’t see the design.
“What organization is it?” she asked. There were kids involved, walking along the edge of the street, handing out sheets of paper. The candy-tossers, she could see now, were all women. “A day care?”
One girl returned, stepping carelessly on the frozen soil of PJ’s border garden, and handed a paper up to the woman. “Look at this, Mom. It’s weird.”
“Oh my God.” The woman held it at arm’s length for the rest of them to read. In the dim glow from the lanterns, Clare could make outWHITE FAMILIES UNITE! BLOOD AND SOIL ARE OUR HERITAGE! DIVERSITY IS A CODE WORD FOR WHITE GENOCIDE!
“What the hell?” PJ said. “Who gives something like that to kids?”
Russ glanced toward the parade. “Uh-oh.”
Clare followed his gaze. The second man on the tractor had unfurled a banner readingKEEP AMERICA’S CHRISTMAS WHITE.
An inarticulate yell startled her. From the lawn, a rangy, raw-boned man strode away from the fire, headed for the offensive float. Clare vaguely recognized him. “Isn’t that one of the aldermen?” She didn’t know all of the Millers Kill town board by sight, but Ron Tucker was the best-known car mechanic in town.
“Sure is.” Russ tested the wooden railing against his weight, then vaulted over. “PJ, call nine-one-one.” He loped off in Tucker’s direction.
The street in front of the Adams house was all confusion: parents pulling children away, people shouting, all half muffled by the music blaring from the floats before and behind the tractor. The inexorable logic of the parade meant everything had to keep moving or collide into disaster, so the hideous message traveled on, waves of shock and dismay swelling after it like the polluted wake from a garbage scow. The women, walking ahead, kept tossing candy, eliciting cheers from spectators who hadn’t seen the message. Clare couldn’t tell if the children were still handing out their hateful packets.
Ron Tucker was at the float now, yelling something Clare couldn’t make out and snatching at the offensive banner. Russ was a few steps behind him, his hand outstretched, when the mechanic gave up trying to grab the sheet and climbed onto the tractor. The spectators cheered, and in an instant the picture in Clare’s head flipped from the racist on the float giving the good people of Greenwich the finger, to the racist getting dragged from the float and beaten to a pulp by the good people of Greenwich. With her husband putting his body between every blow.
“PJ, will you take Ethan?” Not waiting for an answer, she thrust the baby into the other woman’s arms. She eyed the railing, then figured if Russ could do it, so could she. She went over the edge and thudded into the half-frozen dirt.
“The cops are on the way,” PJ called after her.
Clare waved acknowledgment. “Terry! Bill!” Two men she had met earlier in the evening, now standing dumbstruck in front of the fire pit. “Come with me.” Clare was alsoMajorFergusson, of the National Guard, with a ten-year career in the army before she entered the priesthood. One thing she could do was get people moving.
Given a recognizable command, the men shifted into gear. On the float, Tucker was trading punches with the banner man, who was trying to save his sheet and stay on the tractor at the same time. The man driving was twisting around, shoving at Tucker, causing the tractor to veer back and forth across the road. Spectators scattered to get out of the way. Russ was wedged between the machine’s giant tire and its hitch, trying to wrap his arms around Tucker’s midsection while not getting knocked down and run over by the tractor’s increasing erratic movements.
Clare turned and faced her conscripts. “Okay, you two. Get up to the cab and see if you can stabilize that steering wheel.”
Bill looked at the melee with dismay. “What if the driver tries to hit us?”
Hit him back,she didn’t say. “Tell him you’re trying to help him.”
