Page 6 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
Russ laughed. “Oh, God, yes. I remember that. He was all arms and legs and red hair, hadn’t even finished growing into himself. It was like having an Irish setter puppy running around in the shop. The radar gun was exciting. Traffic duty was exciting. We had a homicide that year and he helped at the scene. I had to tell him to stop grinning and commenting how cool it all was.”
The kids had paused the song, and Betsy was going over their two parts, soprano and treble.
“I can believe it. He’d calmed down a little by the time I came onto the force, but still. Do you see that guy wallowing in some sort of existential crisis about his future?”
Russ breathed in. “No.”
“And the Flynn family is really tight. Like, until Kevin left, they all had Sunday dinner together every week. I mean, I could go from Christmas to Christmas without ever talking to my mom,” Knox’s tone was dry, “but I can’t see Flynn doing that.”
“I… yeah. You’ve got a point.”
“So maybeyoucould call Syracuse again?”
Russ wondered exactly how coincidental that second cup of coffee had been. “Knox. Hadley. I’m not chief of police anymore. I’m not in law enforcement anymore. I’m a stay-at-home dad.”
“You could act as a private investigator,” she wheedled.
He laughed. “PIs in New York state have to have a business entity, pass an exam, and apply for a license.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to argue. “Plus, I have zero desire to be a PI.”
Knox sagged back against the shining wood of the pew. “Okay. Sorry.”
“What I will do is talk to Lyle.He’sacting chief of the agency formerly employing Kevin, and will get a lot further with the HR department in Syracuse than you or I would.”
Knox digested that, then smiled. “Thank you. I know it’s not my job, but I’ve been… worried. A lot.”
“You two worked as partners. That creates a bond. Look at Lyle and his old partner Vince Patten. Lyle left the Albany shop, what, twenty? Twenty-five years ago? And they’re still tight.”
“Mmm.” She buried her face in her coffee.
One of the ladies who had absconded with his son appeared in the doorway, holding Ethan in a way that suggested a full diaper. “Oops.” Russ slid out of the pew. “Duty calls.”
“Chief? Thanks. Really.”
“My pleasure. I guess I’m destined to be keeping an eye out for adventurous boys.”
2.
How bad would it be, Clare wondered, to sneak a pair of mittens meant for charity? It was the kickoff to the ecumenical Abundance Rejoices, a program where the churches in the Washington County area collected food, winter clothing, gift cards, and what Dr. McFeely, the Presbyterian minister, called “the necessities and pleasures of the season.”
Unfortunately, Clare had forgotten to stuff her lined gloves into her parka pocket before heading out from St. Alban’s, and after two hours accepting and sorting donations in the IGA parking lot, she was frankly coveting the insulated mittens sitting atop the nearest box of clothing.
“Go ahead, take them.” Father St. Laurent, the Roman Catholic priest who had been packing food donations across the table from her, nodded toward the mittens.
“I can’t. They’re for the underprivileged.” Her mouth quirked a little. “Or as my grandmother would have said, ‘the poor.’” She exaggerated her Southern accent until the word “poor” had two long syllables.
St. Laurent laughed. “My mémé would have said ‘the deserving,catholicpoor.’” He snagged the pair and tossed them to Clare. “If you promise to put them back, I won’t tell.”
“Okay.” She slid them on, flexing her fingers inside to warm them.
“How are you doing?” St. Laurent’s voice changed, became more, well, pastoral. She recognized it because she used the same tone herself.
“With sobriety, you mean?” Clare sighed. “Not going to lie. It’s hard. I seriously backslid around the time my husband quit his job and the police force was on the chopping block. So much pain and fear and I couldn’t…” She didn’t know how to complete the sentence.
“You want to help everyone, and when you can’t, you don’t know how to deal with it.” St. Laurent tugged on his knit toque. “I’ve been there myself, more than once. What got you out of it?”
“The next morning, the baby was fussy, so I brought him into bed with us.” She smiled at the memory. “I looked at him and my husband, all drowsy together, and I thought, I can have this, or I can have those pain pills hidden in my glove compartment.” She shrugged. “I walked to the car in my PJs and slippers, flushed the pills down the toilet, and went to my first AA meeting that night.” She ducked her head. “I get my thirty-day chip this Wednesday.”
St. Laurent pushed aside his parka and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out what looked like a large gold coin, gleaming in the waning winter light. “Five years.”
