One Was a Soldier (13 page)

The pedestrians bothered him. He’d noticed it before, in the weeks since he’d been home. He was okay with people walking when he was walking, and he was as relaxed as he ever was with other drivers when he was behind the wheel, but driving past pedestrians—getting flickering views of faces, backpacks, hands, shopping bags—made his shoulders bunch up around his ears and his scalp tighten.

He went through his litany of reminders.
Relax your shoulders. Breathe. Don’t drive too slow. Don’t pull toward the center of the road.
That was another thing he had a tendency to do—steer himself away from the sidewalks and parked cars. His brain knew nobody in Millers Kill was going to lob a grenade into his cruiser or blow up an abandoned vehicle at the side of the road. Unfortunately, his balls hadn’t gotten the update.

He grew easier as soon as he left the town center. Away from the small shopping district, the sidewalks emptied except for an occasional kid on a bike or a dog walker. The high school was at the east edge of town, as far as you could go before hitting the rolling farmlands of Cossayuharie. He took the looping drive past the admin building, around the sprawling one- and two-story complex, and parked in the lot nearest the athletic fields.

There were still a handful of minivans and SUVs waiting while the remaining members of the middle school cross-country teams dispersed: long-legged graceful girls talking and laughing; gawky boys, some a head shorter, shouting and bashing into each other.

Eric was surprised to see a familiar grape-Popsicle-colored Escort. Hadley Knox was leaning against her car, watching her little girl cartwheel clumsily through the shaggy grass at the edge of the bleachers. Unlike him, she’d taken the time to change into her civvies.

“Hey, Hadley.” He slammed his door shut and strolled over toward her. “What are you doing here?”

She twisted to look at him. “Eric. Hi.” She gestured toward the bleachers, where a clump of boys stood looking at somebody’s Game Boy. “Hudson’s starting on the track team.”

“The cross-country team?”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It’s all running around in circles to me.”

“He’s in middle school?”

“He’s eleven. Starting sixth grade this year.”

“God. I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, well, I guess time flies when they ship you over to a desert and shoot things at you.”

He laughed. “It didn’t fly fast enough.”

“Your son’s on the team?”

“Yeah. This’ll be his third year. He qualified for all-state last season.” Anger twisted his voice. “And I missed it.” He tamped the heat down. Shrugged it off. “Oh well. He’s been putting in a lot of time training over the summer. I expect him to make state again this year.”

She looked past the bleachers to the center of the track, where Jacob and two other boys were vying to outdo each other in push-ups. “Training during the summer? That sounds pretty hard core for a kid who’s in, what—eighth grade?”

“It is. We’re looking ahead. Millers Kill High School has two traditional strengths, basketball and cross-country track and field.”

“That makes sense. Neither of those takes a lot of money.”

“You got it. Anyway, MKHS has fielded several kids who got running scholarships to college. That’s what we’re shooting for.”

“You’re kidding me.” Hadley’s eyes sharpened. “You can get scholarships for running?”

“Sure.”

“Huh.” She chewed her lower lip.

One of the other parents honked, and the Game Boy–playing group broke up. Hadley’s son pelted over and gave his mom a hug, despite the presence of other kids. He was short, dark-haired and dark-eyed like his mother, and Eric’s heart squeezed as the boy started babbling on about his practice, his arms unself-consciously wrapped around Hadley’s waist. When Eric had left for Iraq, Jake had been like that, still a little guy, still wanting to be his dad’s best bud.

“… so Coach says he needs an assistant and we should all ask our parents for a volunteer,” Hudson was saying.

“Not me.” Hadley shook the boy’s shoulders slightly. “Hudson, do you remember meeting Sergeant McCrea?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Hi, Sergeant McCrea.” The kid peered at him more closely. “Hey, aren’t you the one who was in the war?”

“That’s me.”

Hudson’s eyes brightened. “Cool! Didja shoot anybody?”

“Hudson!”

Eric laughed. “Sorry, no.”

“Our priest went to Iraq, but she just flew helicopters. I don’t think she even had a gun.”

“And you’re not going to ask her, either.” His mom shook him again and swatted at his rear. “Get your sister and get in the car.” She grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

Eric shook his head while Hudson thundered toward the bleachers. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a boy thing. They all think guns are cool.”

“I just don’t get it.” Hadley shuddered. “I hate guns.”

“You’re kind of in the wrong profession, then.”

“Don’t I know it.” She swiveled toward her kids, now roughhousing in the grass. “Into the car, you two!” She corralled them, and with a final “See you tomorrow!” she was off down the access road, along with most of the other vehicles.

“C’mon, Jacob!” Eric shouted. “Let’s go.” In contrast to Hudson Knox, Jake was taking his own sweet time, disappearing into the bleachers while Eric shifted from foot to foot. His stomach rumbled. Finally, Jake reappeared, water bottle in hand. He slouched toward his father.

“What the hell took you so long? The McIlverys are probably sitting down to eat by now.”

Instead of answering, Jake eyed the squad car with disapproval. “God, Dad. Did you have to drive that thing here? It’s so embarrassing.”

“You used to love riding in the cruiser.”

“I used to love Barney the Dinosaur, too.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, exposing pimples on his forehead. “I was talking to Iola Stillman.”

“Who’s Iola Stillman?”

“She’s on the high school team. They had practice before us.”

Eric, who was opening his door, paused. “She’s still here?”

“Yeah. Her dad’s supposed to pick her up. She forgot her phone, so she can’t call.”

Eric scanned the empty parking lot and the vacant school beyond it. The sun sinking into the western mountains. The only thing likely to show up here on a hot night in August was trouble. “I’m going to see if she needs a ride.”

“Dad! She’s Iola Stillman. She’s a sophomore. And you’re driving a cop car. She’s going to think I’m the biggest dweeb in the world. Dad! No!”

Eric strode off toward the bleachers. He rounded the corner and saw the girl, huddled in a tangle of bony knees and elbows. She started up when she saw him, then sank onto the bench again.

“Iola?” He stopped straight in front of her. The poor thing looked miserable. “I’m Eric McCrea, Jake’s dad. Jake says your father was supposed to pick you up? Do you know when?”

She looked down at her running shoes. “He was supposed to be here an hour and a half ago. I woulda left with one of my friends, but I was sure he was going to show.”

Eric tried to relax his fists. What the hell kind of father left his daughter all alone out here, with no phone and no other way home? Hadn’t the bastard ever heard of sexual assault? “You come with me and Jake,” he said. “We’ll take you home.”

“But what if my dad—”

“You can use my phone and let him know.” If it were up to him, Eric would let the son of a bitch make a run out here. Maybe finding his daughter gone would put the fear of God into him.

She grabbed her tote bag and followed him to the parking lot. “Wow,” she said, when she saw the cruiser. Jake had already gotten in the passenger side and was trying, when Eric opened the back door to let Iola in, to make himself invisible through immobility.

Eric handed the girl his phone and climbed into the driver’s seat. He unlatched the reinforced Plexi barrier and slid it to one side, so Iola could talk to them. She leaned forward and looked around, big-eyed. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Buckle up.”

Jacob shot him a glance without moving his head. “Ooo,” Iola said. “There aren’t any door handles back here.” Eric started up the cruiser and pulled out of the lot. “This is really cool. Thank you so much for giving me a lift, Mr. McCrea.”

Eric shot Jacob a look. Jake stared stonily ahead. “Where do you live, Iola?”

“Mountain View Park. Off Sunset Drive.” About as far west of the town as the high school was east. Eric drove with half his attention on the traffic, half on Iola’s call to what must have been her dad’s office. “He didn’t?” she said. “Okay. No, I’m fine. Thanks.” She hung up. “My dad’s a doctor. I thought maybe … there might have been an emergency.”

“No?”

“Nope. He’s not on call. He left a couple hours ago.” Her voice had the wavering quality of someone trying not to show hurt. Eric’s hands tightened on the wheel.
Bastard.

Mountain View Park was a new development, built when the skyrocketing real estate prices in Albany and Saratoga began to drive families farther and farther up the Northway. In exchange for a two-hour daily commute, they got sprawling, shining-windowed houses tucked in among trees well away from the quiet dead-end road.

“This is it,” Iola said, and he turned up a broad, square-paved drive leading to a brick-and-timber Tudor manor that Henry the Eighth would have been right at home in. He shook his head.
If you want to know what God thinks of money,
his dad would say,
just look at who He gives it to.

“Is anybody home?”

“I have a key,” Iola said.

Eric got out and released the back door, leaving the cruiser running. “I’ll walk you up.” Inside, unseen, Jake let out a low moan.

They were almost to the front door when it swung open. An older man in rumpled khakis and a half-buttoned shirt came out to the top step. “Iola?” He looked at Eric, alarmed. “What happened?”

“Dad!” Iola stomped up the steps. “You were supposed to pick me up two hours ago!” Her voice broke. “Where were you?”

“I … I…” Iola’s father’s eyes shifted back and forth. He looked like an animal pinned in a trap.
Cheating,
Eric thought.
He forgot his kid while he was banging the girlfriend.
“I’m sorry, baby girl.” Stillman wrapped his arms around Iola, who stood stiff and unyielding. “I must have gotten my schedule mixed up. I’m so, so sorry.”

You sure are.
“Iola,” Eric said. “Can I have a word with your father?”

Iola wiped at her face. “Okay. I’m going to go inside and call Mum.” She drew herself up with all the dignity a fifteen-year-old could muster. “Thank you again for bringing me home, Mr. McCrea.” She glared at her father, then swept past him into the house.

Stillman rubbed his close-cropped hair. “Thank you, Officer. I don’t know how I dropped the ball on that one.”

Eric stepped closer. Stillman didn’t smell drunk. Pills, maybe? Doctors could write their own prescriptions. “I don’t know if you’re new to the area, Dr. Stillman, but despite our quaint, small-town look, we’re not crime-free.”

“I know that. My family’s lived in Millers Kill for generations, for God’s sake.”

“Then you ought to know that there have been several sexual assaults of young women over the years. You ought to know that a girl was gang-raped on high school property once. I worked that investigation. I saw what they did to her.”

The color drained from Stillman’s face.

“You ought to know enough not to leave your teenaged daughter alone out there with night coming on and no way to contact you.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“I don’t know what you were doing instead of being a father, and frankly, I don’t care. Get your act together.”

Stillman’s mouth opened. Closed. He spun on his heel and vanished into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Goddamn rich guy. He probably sat on his ass watching a wide-screen TV while his daughter waited for him. Yet guys like Eric had to push their kids to run in order to have a hope of sending them to college. Life was no damn fair, and it made him mad. So mad, he could—he stalked back to the cruiser, the last hot rays of the sunset matching the red pounding in his head.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 20

Tomato juice. Worcester sauce. Onion salt. Celery. Clare sat the ingredients on the counter and retrieved her big glass pitcher from the cupboard. She banged through the swinging kitchen doors and headed for the foot of the stairs, trying not to favor her right ankle. She was working to rebuild its strength, and limping around babying it wasn’t going to help.

“You want a virgin Bloody Mary?” she yelled up the stairs.

“God, no. Just coffee. I hate tomato juice.”

“More for me.” She snagged the vodka off the drinks tray and carried it into the kitchen. She removed a package of paper-wrapped sausages from the freezer and started them defrosting in the microwave while she mixed up a Bloody. She glanced at the clock hanging over her bare pine table. Glanced at the pitcher. It was noon in Nova Scotia. Close enough. She poured herself a tall, stiff one, swizzled it with a celery stick, and drank half the contents in one pull.

She smiled as she heard the shower go on. Russ had arrived unexpectedly last night, late from patrolling. Woke her up, despite the sleeping pill she had taken. Woke her up again at dawn, his hands moving over her, slow, intense, the two of them gathering like storm clouds over the mountains until they exploded: heat lightning and rolling thunder. She had dropped back into a deep, dreamless sleep, not surfacing until close to eleven. She stretched, snapping her spine. Lord, she loved Saturdays. She’d never really appreciated them before.

She threw the sausages into an enameled pan and started the coffee brewing in her press. Switched on the radio and refreshed her Bloody Mary. Pulled a carton of eggs from the icebox and turned around. She saw the face through the kitchen door at the same time she heard the knocking. She shrieked, clutched at her robe, dropped the eggs.

The door swung open. Anne Vining-Ellis burst into the kitchen. “Oh, Clare, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

Clare felt something wet and viscous against her bare foot. She looked down. Three broken eggs were oozing across her cheap pressed-vinyl floor.