Page 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Something about her worries me, Sam.”

Clara sat with him over take-out McDonald’s because she’d felt too frazzled to cook.

“What’s she up to? What’s some tree-hugger police doing poking into this? And she wasn’t even on duty! I got her address and all off her records, and she lives over in Maryland anyway. In Heron’s Rest.”

“Don’t you worry about her, babe.” He swiped one of his fries through ketchup. “I bet she’s just nosy, that’s all.”

Worry gnawed at her nerves like a rat on cheese.

“I don’t think so, doll, I just don’t. I told you how I called my friend over where Celia Russell was, and mentioned it, like in passing. And she said she’d been in there, too. Asking questions. I don’t like it one little bit.”

“I hate seeing you upset thisaway. You’re hardly eating your Big Mac. You come on now, settle yourself. My woman needs to eat.”

“Something about her.” To placate him, she ate another bite. “We’re going to look into her. She gets herself shot, we’ll find out where and how. I got the when and how off her ER records. We need to find out more.”

“We’ll do that, babe, but don’t you worry. She’s not even really a cop, right?”

“That’s the worry, doll. That’s just the worry. People go missing, cops ask questions, sure. And nothing to do with us because we’re careful, and doing what we’re meant to do, what we’ve been called to do. So why’s she poking around? There’s a reason, doll. I feel it.”

“Nothing for her to find out, is there? But we’ll ease your worries.” He patted her hand. “Then we’ll keep doing what we’re meant to do.”

Though she didn’t learn much, Sloan wrote it all out, added names to her wall. Doctors and nurses who’d dealt with the two missing.

And she’d do the same with the other hospitals. Be thorough.

Then she put it aside to make her final decision on new windows, siding, colors, the front porch, the design and position of the mudroom addition.

And damn it, the carport Nash had put in her head.

She calculated the cost. Winced.

Then reminded herself she’d be making an investment, and get the contractor’s rate on the materials. Add in some free labor because even if she wanted to say no, her father wouldn’t take it. He’d pitch in.

One more essential factor on the pro side of things? This was home, and home deserved the best she could give it.

After a consultation with her father, she bit the bullet and had him place the order.

“Done,” she told herself. “And I won’t be sorry.”

Then picked up her phone when it signaled a text. From Nash.

Busy?

Not anymore.

Come over. I’ve got pulled pork, potato rolls. Your mom sent it.

Mom’s pulled pork sands? Give me ten.

Since she’d intended to settle in wearing her sweats, she went into the bedroom, changed into jeans and a sweater. Because spring crept closer, she grabbed a vest instead of a coat, and set out.

Stopping, she turned, imagined the house with the warm blue siding, the creamy white trim, the wood porch and rails.

Add the jut of the mudroom off the side beside the open carport, and she’d have something that would make her smile whenever she drove home from work.

She decided to walk, and found herself pleased with that decision when she spotted more crocus spreading against what was slowly becoming patchy snow.

And the spears of daffodils poked through.

Swans glided over the lake, and a heron flew above them. A pretty picture over that reflection of the hills, caught in the shimmering light as it neared sunset.

When she rang the bell, a window rose on the second floor.

“It’s open,” Nash called out. “We’re up here.”

We, she decided when she walked in, didn’t include Tic, as he didn’t race down to greet the visitor.

Nash met her at the top of the stairs, still wearing his tool belt and Mets cap.

“Still working?”

“Just finishing up for today. Take a look.”

She walked back with him to the main bedroom.

“You took out the wall! And you framed in for— Hey, CJ.”

CJ and her Orioles-orange hair stood in what had been the adjoining bedroom, hands in the pockets of her carpenter pants.

“Hey back. I’ll pick up what you need and start rough-in plumbing day after tomorrow. After noon, I figure.”

“That’ll work.”

She gave him a narrow stare before pointing at his Mets cap. “You gonna keep wearing that?”

“Well—”

“You’re not in New York anymore, hotshot. This here is Bird country. I’m overlooking it—for now—because you got Robo sticking to a job and liking it. Gave him a raise, too.”

“He earned it.”

Though CJ kept her scowl in place, the pride and pleasure showed through. “Seems like he did, so I’m overlooking it. But opening day’s coming. Once the season starts, I can’t be responsible for what happens to that cap.”

“So noted.”

“Day after tomorrow,” she repeated. “Good to see you, Sloan.”

“You, too.”

Sloan wandered the new space. “Well, wow. Big bathroom, big closet.”

“I’m still fiddling with the design, but I’m doing a coffee bar.”

“A coffee bar in the closet.” She spoke it reverently.

“Yeah. I’m either going to look for vintage doors leading in from the bedroom or make them. And switching the fireplace to gas in there. Maybe doing a small, interesting electric one in the bathroom.”

Because a fireplace in the bathroom qualified as a long-term fantasy of hers, Sloan felt a little thrill.

“It’ll be a hell of a space, especially when you add the upper porch.”

“Coming up on it, and going with a glass railing system. It’s all about the view.”

“You’re hitting all my feels, and you get top marks on vision. A hell of a space,” she said again, “but I thought you were finishing the main level first.”

“Changed my mind. I’ve lived here for nearly five months.” As he looked around, Sloan knew he saw it all finished. “I want a decent bathroom.”

She walked to him, rose to her toes for a kiss. “Though the size and scope of mine can’t compare, I can attest it makes a difference in your day. Where’s Theo and Tic?”

“At your parents’. I declined the dinner offer, but pushed Theo and the dog to accept. Your mom brought me over the pulled pork—and gave me some tips on where to look for the vintage doors.”

“Elsie Cooper’s tips are gold.”

In an absent move that had become a habit, Nash brushed a hand over Sloan’s hair.

“She mentioned pulled pork was a favorite of yours and that she’d brought plenty for two.”

When Sloan smiled, he leaned down, touched his lips to her curved ones.

“I took the hint,” he continued. “Your dad’s making hand-cut fries. You’ll have to settle for frozen.”

“I don’t consider that settling. Once you get the upper porch done beyond your doors to nowhere, put out some chairs, tables—and you’ll want flowerpots—”

“Will I, though?”

“Yes, you will. You can tap my mom on what you’ll want there. Her gardening tips are also gold. Think how nice it’ll be to have morning coffee out there.”

“It’s a plan. And doing this now means I can start enjoying that in a few weeks instead of a few months.”

She walked to the window and his view of lake and mountains, saw it with the rustic wood porch, the all but invisible rails. Maybe a couple of Adirondack chairs, a wine barrel table, add a bench, distressed, she decided, for more seating, a pair of chunky pots spilling and spiking with flowers.

“It’s going to be fabulous and worth every minute of the work. I hope you’ll carve out time to do some of the exterior work on my not spectacular but cozily charming place. I ordered the supplies today.”

“Yeah, we’ll make time. Come down, tell me about it.”

She turned to look at him. “I’m getting used to telling you about things.”

“That’s gotten to be a two-way street.”

“Want to hear about the maid-of-honor dress I picked out a few days ago?”

“Absolutely not.” He took her hand. “Tell me about windows and siding over a glass of wine.”

When she went down with him, she detoured from the wine and straight into the dining room.

“You finished it! The table, the room. Oh, the table’s just gorgeous.”

Because he’d learned preheating was an actual thing, he turned on the top oven. “Your mom sort of cooed over it. You’re more a purr.”

“Really? Whatever. You need more chairs, but these three are great. Not matching, but coordinating.”

“Exactly what Elsie said. And since I’m not planning any dinner parties, I’m taking my time with chairs.”

“Good warm wall color.” She nodded in approval as she wandered the room. “Not really gray, not really green. The Federal crown mold ing makes it. And the big window brings in the woods. You did a hell of a job on cleaning up this old iron fireplace. It looks old and dignified instead of old and ugly.”

“It took some sweat. Mostly Robo’s, and for some reason, he enjoyed doing it.”

“Robo’s got the bug now,” she murmured as she scanned the room. “You need the right art, interesting candlesticks for the table, maybe a big wooden bowl—unless you’re going to do fresh flowers for the table every week.”

“I am definitely not doing that.”

“I thought not. But you absolutely need a buffet, a big server-type deal.”

“It’s in the shop. Needs refinishing.”

“I want to see!”

The oven dinged.

“I’ll put the fries in, then we can go out.”

“Good enough. I want— Wait! Your office? Did you finish that, too?”

It added something, he realized, to have someone so genuinely enthusiastic about the changes.

It added more, he realized as well, that the someone was her.

“You know where it is. Go take a look.”

After he put the fries in, set the timer on his phone, he went to find her.

“Oh, the barnwood wall. Yes, I want one. And you went with the smoky gray paint, which is just right. Your desk is big and beautiful with an important leather chair. The lights hit modern rustic without being too much of either. Built-ins, perfect, and I like the pocket for blueprints like my dad has.”

“He gave me the idea. Here.”

He handed her the wine.

“You need a leather sofa, offset that with a live-edge coffee table, some art, a rug—something just faded enough.”

He watched her wander the space, placing finishing touches. “Dean was right.”

“About?”

“You got the decor gene from Elsie.”

“I guess I did, and like her, I can’t help myself. You’ve gotten so much done. Has it really been that long since I was over here last?”

“Couple weeks, I guess. Your place tends to be more private, most of the time.”

“I can’t decide if it’s more fun to see the progress bit by bit or to come in on a finished product. Either way, Jesus, Nash, you’re making a wonderful home.”

He remembered sitting in the chilly kitchen on a table of sawhorses and a door, and planning.

“It’s what I wanted. I’m finding I want it more every day.”

“It’s good to be home, and this is yours now. I didn’t know how good it was to be home until I came back to it. Let’s walk out to the shop so I can envy your next piece of furniture.”

The idea of Sloan Cooper worried Clara like a bad tooth. It troubled and distracted her during the day, kept her awake at night.

She read everything she could find on this constant irritation. High school track and cross-country star.

Big forking deal.

Her family owned a bunch of vacation rentals and such under the name All the Rest. She came from money then. One of those types.

She could have dismissed the woman with that background. Just some rich kid who had time to run for fun and probably hadn’t spent a full day doing real work.

But she read up on the tree-hugger police, too, and they were a lot more than she’d thought. That added worry, and more yet when she found that damn name mentioned in some of their articles.

She’d worked as a kind of detective, covering the whole state. Going after poachers, sure—as if God didn’t give man dominion over animals. And government cashed in with their license fees, their rules and fines.

But more than that.

She’d helped catch a man who’d killed his wife and tried to pass it off as an accident down in Assateague State Park, and busted up a meth operation—Clara did not approve of drugs—running through Rocky Gap. Led herself a team that took down a father and sons beating up on and robbing from hikers in Deep Creek.

And it looked like she did that one the same day she got herself shot. Not by the boys and their daddy, but at some gas station store outside of Hagerstown.

She carried a gun like regular police, but that hadn’t helped her.

Never in her life had Clara wished anyone dead. That was for God to decide. But she wished, and she’d prayed, that he’d take a good long look at this one. And call her home.

When Sam, reaching for her in the night, found her side of the bed empty, he went out to find her at the computer and chugging Mountain Dew.

“Babe, you need your sleep.” He moved behind her to rub her shoulders, and saw she’d pulled up another search on Sloan Cooper.

“You gotta let this go, babe. It’s wearing you down. She’s nothing to worry about.”

“It keeps pulling at me. I feel like there’s a message trying to get through to me, but there’s too much noise around it. I’ve been praying on it, and praying on it, but I can’t hear it clear.”

“Because you’re not getting good sleep. Off your feed, too.” Bending down, he kissed the top of her head. “You come on back to bed, and I’ll relax you.”

She reached up to close her hand over his. “I can’t shake this feeling, doll. Just can’t, so I have to try to follow it. I’ve got a knowing there’s a reason she came into my ER, for treatment, and then again to ask her nosy questions. I need the reason before I can let it go.”

“Babe, we haven’t really done much on picking the next. You always say our mission comes first.”

“I know that. I know it.” Stress ran up and down her spine like fire ants. “But, Sam, what if she’s part of the mission somehow? Maybe sent by the Devil himself to try to stop us from doing our work. Look at her eyes, Sam. Those are witch’s eyes, I swear.”

As the chill ran through her, Clara hugged herself. “And the Good Book says: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

Now he sat. Rather than a chill, he felt a thrill. “You want us to kill her?”

“I’m conflicted. I’m just so torn about it all. We’d have to prove what she is first. We don’t take lives, we heal. And we release the resurrected so they can go where they were meant to go.”

Still hugging herself, she rose and walked to the window to look out at the dark.

So much dark in the world, she thought. Didn’t she see it every day? Didn’t she fight against it every day?

“I’ve been given this burden to carry, and I’ll carry it no matter how heavy it weighs.”

“Not alone, Clara. Never alone.”

“You’re my gift, Sam. I need to get her medical records. I think—I feel—if she’s a demon, I’ll find something in them to show me.”

“Babe, you don’t have the access down in Hagerstown. And we don’t know what doctors she might’ve been seeing along the way.”

“That’s why I know—I know there’s a reason she came into where I do have access, and came in when I was on the ER desk. She came right up and spoke to me, looked at me with those witch’s eyes. Dr. Marlowe treated her in November, and I have the name of the surgeon who worked on her when she got shot. And they’d have her previous records.”

A heavy burden, she thought again, but she could carry it. She would carry it.

“I can work it like I have before. Need to be careful, and I will be. The Lord helps those who help themselves. This is how we help ourselves. And if the proof isn’t there? I think I can let it go. I think I can accept this was a kind of test.”

“All right, babe. But what if we find proof?”

She turned to him, eyes fervent and fevered. “We send a witch back to hell.”

And he felt that thrill again, hotter and stronger. “I’m with you, babe.”

She let out a breath. “I swear, I feel better just knowing we’re taking the steps.” She smiled at him, gave a flirty rock of her shoulders. “Here we are wide awake, and me buzzed up on the Dew. And we’ve still got a couple hours before we have to get up and get ready for work.”

As he smiled, he gave her the eyebrow wiggle. “How about I spend part of that couple hours helping you work off that buzz?”

She giggled when his hands slid under her nightgown. “Nobody does it better, doll.”

It took her a few days, and a little more research. She couldn’t rush it. Clara understood she had to find the right time, have all the answers to routine questions ready.

And timing meant everything.

Since she knew it best to wait until Dr. Marlowe’s day off, calling on patience ranked high as well.

She dealt with patients with her usual calm and compassion. Took temperatures, blood pressures, held hands. Listened. She knew nurses, simply by their makeup, listened better than doctors.

She updated charts.

And didn’t complain when a sick boy vomited on her.

She’d have brushed away the mother’s tearful apologies in any case, but Clara saw it as a sign.

It gave her the opportunity to take a break to clean up, change her soiled top. Then time, just enough, to slip into an empty exam room.

Normally, if she wanted records in the system, she worked her way to them on night shift on her regular floor, when things tended to quiet down.

She didn’t have to fabricate a story, make a call to another hospital—something she also took care of in private or quiet spaces.

The full medical would be in Marlowe’s files.

Clara typed in the doctor’s name, her ID number, all the patient information she had into the electronic health record system.

And pulled the flash drive from her pocket, bypassed into data backup.

She waited, one eye on the door—though she’d locked it—her other eye on the computer.

She saw no reason Dr. Marlowe would check the patient’s file, note the access, the backup.

She’d used this system before successfully. Just as she’d used those fabricated stories to gain a transfer of patient records.

It worried her now because the woman worried her. She needed to pee; she wanted a sugary snack. Why was the transfer taking so long!

She needed a vacation, just a few days, she thought. It didn’t have to be Aruba. They couldn’t afford that so close to the other trip there.

But maybe a drive down to the Carolina beaches. Three or four days down there, without worry or work.

Next month, she promised herself. This time she’d surprise Sam and get them a house on the beach. Maybe with a pool or a hot tub.

Maybe both!

The idea cheered her up, cleared the headache that had started at the base of her skull.

The second the transfer finished, she snatched the flash drive out, closed down the records.

Relief flooded as she walked to the door, unlocked it. It flew open, jolting her, before she could open it herself.

On the gurney, the man was bloody and barely conscious, and the doctor already snapping orders.

Without missing a beat, Clara put on her metaphorical nurse’s cap and got to work.

Since she hadn’t made a decent meal for Sam in nearly a week—just too worried and distracted—Clara stopped at the grocery store on her way home.

She’d put in long hours that day, done solid work, and much of it on her feet, but a good woman took care of her good man. She picked up pork chops and potatoes—she’d make the salted ones he liked so much—butter beans she’d pan-fry like her granny’s, some Parker House rolls, and add a half gallon of rocky road for dessert.

Since she’d made the stop, she picked up what she thought would do them for a week.

Then shook her head at the cost of everything. A body could work herself to the bone and barely get by!

Living off the land had been good enough for her grandparents. A cow for milking, chickens for eggs or frying up, deer and rabbit and squirrel to hunt, fish to hook out of the stream. And jars of vegetables, jams, jellies put by from their own harvest.

At times like these she wondered if nursing had taken her away from that sturdy independence.

But she’d been called to it, and had heeded the call.

The first in her line to go all the way through to college, and that was a proud thing to be.

Her daddy had worked the land, too—or under it in the mines. And that had killed him before he’d reached forty. And her mama had just faded off from the grief.

She’d had a brother, but he’d lit out and joined the army.

And that had killed him.

She had an uncle, a couple of aunts, some cousins somewhere or another. But they’d lost touch long ago.

Clara considered herself the last of her line, and based that on why she’d received another calling.

The mission.

She’d pumped at stopped hearts. She’d pushed her breath into the dead. She’d watched the paddles jerk and jolt false life back into a body.

Once she’d believed those actions a part of healing. Even miracles made by man.

But that was false pride, and that led to a fall—a fall from the only one who performed true miracles.

She listened to stories of some of those dragged back into this world. Some wept, as where they’d been, what they’d felt had been beautiful, peaceful.

And she’d seen in the eyes of those returned what she understood to be a longing for what had been stolen from them even as they embraced the world again.

For a few moments, they’d touched the eternal.

She’d been called to give them that gift again. And as her reward, their blood sustained her, gave her—and Sam—strength, clarity of vision, a purity of understanding what others couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

As she drove through the hills, along the winding road, she felt a sorrow that the long winter neared its end.

For every time there is a season, this she knew. But with spring and summer came more people. Out of their winter caves like bears to roam. Some even close to the house and land where her grandmother had raised and fried up chickens.

It took more time, more care to follow the mission when the days loomed long with light and people sat outside well into the night.

But follow it they would, she promised, as she pulled up to the little house that had been in her family for three generations.

She carted in groceries, went back for more, then put them away.

While the flash drive in her pocket all but burned a hole in it, she reminded herself she had a good meal to make. Sam would be home before much longer, and they’d look at those records together.

She put the salted water on to boil, scrubbed the potatoes.

Once she got them going, she beat up eggs, dipped the pork chops in, and breaded them. Before long, she had them in a skillet, the beans in another.

She heard Sam pull up just as she put the rolls in the oven.

“Woo-wee!” He came in with a grin and a clutch of daffodils. “Something sure smells good!”

“Pork chops, salt potatoes, butter beans. I haven’t made you a good dinner all week.” Her heart bloomed inside her chest as she walked over, kissed him. “And you brought me flowers.”

“I wanted to give you something near as pretty as you.”

“Oh, Sam.” She leaned against him for a minute. “You always brighten my day. I’m going to put these in water and set them on the table. Dinner’s ready as soon as the rolls come out.”

“I think my babe had a good day.” He shrugged out of his jacket, then started to get a beer. He switched it to the bottle of apple wine she liked.

“You’d be right.”

She took the flash drive out of her pocket, held it up.

“You got the records! I swear, my Clara’s the smartest woman there is. What do they say?”

“I haven’t read them yet. I waited for you. You’ll get off your feet, have a good dinner. And after, we’ll look together.”

“That sounds just fine. It does me good to see that worry off your face.” He handed her a glass of wine. “I’ll get the table set.”

“We sure make a good team, don’t we, doll?”

“In every way there is.”

He raved about her pork chops, and she had to admit they came out to a turn.

“Your cooking’s going to make me fat,” he said as he took another helping of potatoes.

“The way you work? You need the calories, so you eat up. I don’t want a bag of bones.”

He laughed; he ate.

When he pushed his plate away, he patted his belly. “Ain’t no bag of bones around here. That was a fine meal, babe. And I tell you what. Let’s just leave the dishes for now, have another glass of this wine, and see what we see in those records.”

“I got rocky road.”

He groaned. “For after.”

“That’s more than fine with me. I couldn’t eat another bite, and I’m anxious to see what’s on that flash drive. If we find proof, we have to figure how to deal with it.”

“Burned witches, didn’t they?”

“That or hanging. I think drowning, too. But getting her here’s what I mean. I told you she’s like real police. Carries a gun.”

“Wasn’t wearing one when she came in to the hospital, was she?”

“Not that I could see.”

“So we take her, if we do, when she’s not being police. Not carrying. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He had a way, she thought, that always settled her.

“You’re right, and I’m borrowing trouble. We don’t know what’s what until we look.”

They cleared the table, left the dishes.

After they opened the laptop, Clara stuck in the drive.

“Here we go. We’ll start with the surgeon’s records, work back from what he got of her history.”

As they read, Sam shifted closer. “Missed her heart, but not by much.”

“By enough. Had a head wound, too. No penetration there. Makes me wonder right off. People survive GSWs all the time. Even multiple. But…”

Frowning, she read on, then her breath caught. She reached over to grip Sam’s hand.

“Look here, look!”

He leaned in a little more, then sat back. “I’ll be damned—sorry. I know you don’t like me saying that, but I’m just that surprised.”

“She’s one of them, Sam. She’s one of the resurrected. That’s what I felt, that’s the message trying to get through. She’s part of the mission, and she came to me herself.”

Closing her eyes, Clara laid another hand on her heart. “We were meant to meet that way. Sam, we’re meant to send her home. Whether that’s Heaven or Hell, we’re meant to send her home.”