Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    One Was a Soldier: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    One Was a Soldier: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    One Was a Soldier: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    Ebook540 pages8 hours

    One Was a Soldier: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery

    By Julia Spencer-Fleming

    4/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    On a warm September evening in the Millers Kill community center, five veterans sit down in rickety chairs to try to make sense of their experiences in Iraq. What they will find is murder, conspiracy, and the unbreakable ties that bind them to one another and their small Adirondack town.

    The Rev. Clare Fergusson wants to forget the things she saw as a combat helicopter pilot and concentrate on her relationship with Chief of Police Russ Van Alstyne. MP Eric McCrea needs to control the explosive anger threatening his job as a police officer. Will Ellis, high school track star, faces the reality of life as a double amputee. Orthopedist Trip Stillman is denying the extent of his traumatic brain injury. And bookkeeper Tally McNabb wrestles with guilt over the in-country affair that may derail her marriage.

    But coming home is harder than it looks. One vet will struggle with drugs and alcohol. One will lose his family and friends. One will die.

    Since their first meeting, Russ and Clare's bond has been tried, torn, and forged by adversity. But when he rules the veteran's death a suicide, she violently rejects his verdict, drawing the surviving vets into an unorthodox investigation that threatens jobs, relationships, and her own future with Russ.

    As the days cool and the nights grow longer, they will uncover a trail of deceit that runs from their tiny town to the upper ranks of the U.S. Army, and from the waters of the Millers Kill to the unforgiving streets of Baghdad.
    One Was a Soldier is "a surefire winner" (Booklist) and "Outstanding" (Library Journal)--Julia Spencer-Fleming at her best.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateApr 12, 2011
    ISBN9781429920247
    One Was a Soldier: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    Author

    Julia Spencer-Fleming

    JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING is the New York Times bestselling author of One Was a Soldier, and an Agatha, Anthony, Dilys, Barry, Macavity, and Gumshoe Award winner. She studied acting and history at Ithaca College and received her J.D. at the University of Maine School of Law. Her books have been shortlisted for the Edgar, Nero Wolfe, and Romantic Times RC awards. Julia lives in a 190-year-old farmhouse in southern Maine.

    Related to One Was a Soldier

    Titles in the series (10)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Police Procedural For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The After Birth

      May 7, 2021

      The After Birth
      30 min read

    • Article

      Q&A with Bonnie

      Apr 21, 2023

      ◗ Elizabeth Zott is a character we would all love to know or even become. Where did such a personality spring from? Fury! I started Lessons in Chemistry about seven years ago. I’d just come out of a meeting, irritated by some garden variety sexism, a

      6 min read

    • Article

      How To Change Your Story

      May 4, 2020

      How To Change Your Story
      5 min read

    • Article

      A Year in Reading: Sophia Shalmiyev

      Dec 20, 2019

      Let us begin at the natural home of all the white-men-are-garbage controversies and go right to the crotch area. The post A Year in Reading: Sophia Shalmiyev appeared first on The Millions.

      5 min read

    • Article

      Why age is JUST A NUMBER

      Sep 6, 2022

      Why age is JUST A NUMBER
      4 min read

    • Article

      Table Talk

      Jun 1, 2020

      Table Talk
      11 min read

    • Article

      Jude

      May 3, 2018

      Jude
      9 min read

    • Article

      Unearthing the Personal

      Apr 10, 2023

      Unearthing the Personal
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Survivor

      May 20, 2023

      The Survivor
      3 min read

    • Article

      Hala Alyan

      Jun 13, 2017

      Mira Jacob author of the novel The Sleepwalker’s Guide to Dancing, published by Random House in 2014. AS A child of a diaspora, I’ve always been haunted by the idea of home—what it means to connect to one specific spot on the earth, to let yourself l

      3 min read

    • Article

      Peter Mountford

      Dec 15, 2017

      Vivian spends most of the afternoon naked and strapped to the giant ottoman in the interior decorator’s office in Bethesda. When he finally unties her, the sun is low and she’s shaky and exhausted. He paddled her hard at some point, and that hot stin

      28 min read

    • Article

      Orange You Glad

      Jun 1, 2021

      Orange You Glad
      13 min read

    • Article

      Suzette D Harrison

      Jun 3, 2021

      One of the UK publisher Bookouture’s most recent signings is the bestselling African American novelist Suzette D Harrison, whose heart-wrenching family saga The Girl at the Back of the Bus is sure to be a hit with British readers. ‘I come from a long

      4 min read

    • Article

      Hala Alyan

      Jun 14, 2017

      by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Mira Jacob author of the novel The Sleepwalker’s Guide to Dancing, published by Random House in 2014. AS A child of a diaspora, I’ve always been haunted by the idea of home—what it means to connect to one specific spot o

      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for One Was a Soldier

    4/5

    84 ratings85 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 4/5
      The mystery begins when a young woman dies, apparently a suicide. Russ's investigation turns up a complex story that ultimately involves just about everyone in the original community therapy group. There's definitely a mystery to solve, but the novel's focus is on the returning veterans.

      If you've never read any of the books in this series, don't start with this book. Do yourself a favor and start with the first book in her series "In the Bleak Midwinter" and read all her books in order. While this book is a self-contained mystery, the growth and relationship of the lead characters is really a huge part of this series and you'll miss out on a large part of the enjoyment of this book if you start the series with this book.
    • 4/5
      I found this one to be a bit slow but towards the middle the action picks up. Claire returns from Afghanistan along with several other town residents. Of course they bring war baggage with them. For Clare it is the form of a pill addiction. As she plans her much awaited wedding to Russ her addiction worsens. The suicide of one of the newly returned is not what it appears at first and we discover that through many twists as the story unravels. If you love Clare and Russ this book won't disappoint. I am upset that there only appears to be one more book in the series.
    • 3/5
      Although I did enjoy reading this book, I had a lot of problems with it. After reading and enjoying the previous six novels in the series, this is the first one I can remember where Claire annoyed me. Her denial and obstinacy in failing to deal with her own problems, while quick to point out and deal with other people’s, was annoying in itself. But deliberately going behind Russ’s back and interfering with a police investigation (and taking a malicious glee in doing so) angered me and made me lose respect for her character. The fact that she never did apologize and admit she was wrong just made it worse.

      I admire the author for her obvious attempt to honor soldiers that have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. That said, I think maybe she was concentrating so hard on doing that she compromised the mystery itself and some character consistency. The set up to the actual mystery seemed to take forever to reach. While the resolution to the crime was satisfying, the eventual outcome was not and kind of made me think the whole investigation had been a waste of time.
    • 3/5
      I have to say up front that I had never read any of the previous titles in this series before I received this book in a giveaway. Sorry to all those that entered that were waiting for this 7th installment and didn't win. I promise to pass my copy onto a good home where it will be appreciated!

      I liked this book much more than I thought I would. It started out kind of slow for me, mostly because I was unfamiliar with the characters and their backgrounds and history. It's always hard to jump into the middle of a series but I think the author did a great job of catching a newbie like me up to speed without heavy handing the facts.
      The vet group counseling session was very helpful in introducing all the characters and their relationships to one another.
      It was refreshing to read a story that that didn't sugarcoat the hardships that our veterans face when they come home after serving our country. The mental as well as the physical casualties.

      I certainly wouldn't classify this book as a mystery. But maybe the previous novels were more mystery oriented? It put me more in mind of a Maeve Binchy or Jan Karon book, with a more serious bent.

      If I had the option I would have given this a 3.5 (please goodreads are you listening?!). All and all an enjoyable book.

    • 5/5
      Complex mystery

      This is another excellent addition to my current favorite series. This is not light reading; the intricacies of the plot require a reader's complete attention. Very hard to put down.
    • 5/5
      Continuing the Russ & Clare saga, Spencer-Fleming reunites the Chief & Pastor after she returns from duty. Delving into 5 veterans from Millers Kill, we begin to understand the challenges our veterans face. Woven into their personal issues (alcohol/drug addiction, anger management, amputation & memory loss) is a dead body and a theft of gov't property with a well-written plot. Add wedding plans, and a small community where everyone knows everyones business and you've got another winner! Letters to a Soldier, an e-book, also gives background to the characters of this book! Can't wait for the next installment.
    • 5/5
      Next book about Clare Fergusson, now back from her year in the army flying helicopters in Iraq, and taking up the reins again as priest in Millers Kill, NY, in spite of having trouble with re-entry (Claire and a handful of other veterans in the town). Much more satisfying conclusion than a couple of the recent previous books.
    • 5/5
      So far this has been my favorite book of the Russ Van Alstyne/Clare Fergusson mystery series. The story starts one day in September when we meet five veterans of the Iraqi War at a counseling session trying to make sense of what's happening to them. One of them is Reverend Clare Fergusson, who's having a difficult time adjusting to civilian life after her 18 month deployment in Iraq.

      Quite a bit of the first part of the book tells the stories of the five soldiers who have all been traumatized by that experience in his or her own way. One of them is a surgeon whose memory is posing a real problem; a bookkeeper who's juggling a husband, a boyfriend and a dangerous secret; a young double amputee afraid to release his pent up anger because he wants his parents to think he's okay; a respected cop whose temper poses hazards to both his family and his work life; and the helicopter pilot/priest who is using drink and drugs to maintain the appearance of "normal." They're all scared, they're all putting most of their energies into denying and hiding the truth about themselves and each is failing badly at it. When a member of the group apparently commits suicide, Clare recruits the group to convince Russ it must be a homicide.

      Russ and Clare's relationship has deepened since her return but Russ, a recovering alcoholic himself, is concerned about Clare's substance reliance. She prides herself on her ability to cope with everything, but she can't seem to shake her nightmares about Iraq.

      I really enjoyed this book. We hear each veteran's experience and become invested in their recovery. Their changed lives and the physical and emotional costs of the war make this a poignant and incredibly sad story. I highly recommend reading this compelling series in order for maximum enjoyment and character development.
    • 4/5
      This seventh book in a wonderful series is quieter and much more personal than the rest have been, but it deals with some very serious subject matter. First and foremost is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Each of the five vets attending the group therapy sessions suffers from it, and each one's symptoms are different. Throughout the series, the Reverend Clare Fergusson has been a rock, someone others look up to in times of need. To have her suffer from PTSD and to show her coping with it in very inappropriate ways brings home how serious the disorder is. Readers have already grown to care deeply about Clare, so their sympathy and understanding is more or less guaranteed. By their very proximity, the other four veterans are brought in under the umbrella of understanding that has been extended to Clare.The lives of the characters also progress in this book, including my favorite, Hadley Knox. Hadley's been thrown into an occupation that she thinks she is very ill-qualified for, but she's determined to do the best that she can for her children, and being a police officer brings in the money that she needs. What she can't see (and we can) is that she's better qualified than she thinks, and I always enjoy the scenes in which she appears.With all this talk of PTSD and characters' personal lives, you might think that the mystery isn't up to the author's usual high standards. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not only are our favorite characters' lives moving forward, One Was a Soldier also has a first-rate investigation that kept me guessing throughout. One more book, and I'll be current... unless Spencer-Fleming manages to get one step ahead of me!
    • 4/5
      I received this book a few years ago along with and ARC I had one. I finally got around to reading this one. This is my second book in this series. Reverend Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne are at it again. Clare just comes back from being deployed in Iraq. She has problems and joins a support group. Were you will meet more veterans. They are all suffering in there own way. I enjoyed the story with the many different stories mixed in. Clare and Russ also get engaged in this book. It was interesting to see the wedding planning with Clare's mother from Virginia. One of the soldiers from her support group dies and her death is ruled a suicide. Clare cannot accept that and goes on a mission to find out the truth.
    • 2/5
      Tale that focuses on the returning soldier, and the trauma the go through. Young woman in Claire's therapy group is felled. The question is if it is suicide, or murder. Shows Claire becoming increasingly addicted to pills, in the midst of her and Russ's wedding plans. Disturbing book, a little too long for my tastes.
    • 5/5
      Clare has come back from her service in the National Guard with nightmares and an addiction to the many drugs that helped her get through her time in Iraq. She is in denial about her problems and she is spending a lot of time combining her drugs with alcohol and pretending everything is all right. When Will Ellis, one of her parishioners who came back a double amputee at age 19, is having issues, she agrees to attend a Vets support group if he will. There they meet Dr. George Stillman, Officer Eric McCrea, and Tally McNab. It is a small town and there are lots of connections. Trip Stillman was Russ's doctor and also treated Will. Eric works in the police department with Russ. Each of them came back wounded though Will's is the only visible injury. And all are having trouble coping with the return to civilian life.When Tally dies, an apparent suicide, Clare doesn't want to believe that she took her own life despite Russ's investigation which supports the suicide verdict. Clare and Russ are at odds over this conclusion which just adds more stress as they are in the lead-up to their wedding. As Clare and the rest of the support group begin looking into Tally's death, they are led to, first, a missing million dollars in cash that Tally and her husband probably brought back from Iraq. An investigator from the Army's financial division is on Tally's trail but isn't conducting her investigation as Russ thinks it should be done. He becomes suspicious of her but is willing to let the Army take over since the crime isn't in his jurisdiction.But the theft of a million is only the tip of the iceberg of a much larger financial crime that leads to Opperman who is a long-time enemy of Russ's and who Russ believes got away with the murder of his two partners (A FOUNTAIN FILLED WITH BLOOD). Much of the plot in this one revolves around the problems the support group brought back with them from war. Tally's suicide, Clare's addiction, Will's suicide attempt, Trip's traumatic brain injury, and Eric's anger management issues all play roles in this engaging and twisty thriller. This was a fast-paced and emotional thriller. I love the relationship between Russ and Clare. They are both strong people who become better and stronger together.
    • 4/5
      This volume of the Clare Fergusson-Russ van Alstyne mysteries centers on the experiences of several Iraq War veterans recently returned from duty. Clare is one of them, having taken a leave from her duties as an Episcopal priest to fly a helicopter in Iraq. The vets are all part of a support group that meets weekly to work through issues adjusting to civilian life. Julia Spencer-Fleming writes very topical novels, often exploring somewhat controversial issues. This novel is no exception: she is very clear on her views about the pointlessness of war. Characters return home scarred; their relationships suffer. Some never return home, leaving loved ones to mourn their loss.The mystery, normally a driving force for these novels, takes a long time to develop, and seems almost ancillary to the stories of the vets and other supporting characters. Sparks have flown between Clare and Millers Kill police chief Russ since the first book in this series, and in this one their relationship develops in a most satisfying way. There's also another romance developing between two newcomers to the police force, which promises spice and suspense in future volumes. About halfway through this book I wasn't sure what to think, since it was so much more about the characters than the mystery. But by the end I was swept up in the personal stories and even teared up a bit in all the right places.
    • 1/5
      I'm glad I didn't have to pay for this book. I just couldn't get through it. Maybe if I had read the first 6 book in the series I could have gotten through this one. I may try to read this book another time.
    • 5/5
      I'm only reviewing this book (the 7th), and only to say that I bought the first and second of the series because of a cheap promo price and then promptly raced through all the rest without coming up for air. Amazingly good books.

      I am satisfied with how the relationship between the two main characters is played out, in a way I didn't expect could be done honorably. I am eagerly awaiting the next book. I'm a little torn about the ratings. I'd rate the earlier ones five stars, except maybe for book 5, but this one is even better.
    • 3/5
      So great to get back to Russ and Claire, though it's been long enough that I didn't quite remember the villains and events of prior books. Spencer-Fleming did a good job reminding me, however, and I liked seeing how everything resolved. I don't know about having events revolve around vets returning home (it felt like there should have been at least one person in the support group that wasn't directly involved), but I did enjoy the emotional satisfaction of the B-plots. Also, really enjoyed Russ's quips coming back, I know that when I re-read the series it's going to be for the character by-play not the mysteries (though they're well done).
    • 5/5
      Claire Ferguson, Episcopal priest and Army National Guard helicopter pilot, is back from an 18-month deployment to Iraq and happy to see Sheriff Russ Van Alstyne again. Everything should be fine -- but it isn't. Claire and several other local veterans begin to meet in a support group -- but one of the members is dealing with something other than PTSD. I loved the way Spencer-Fleming had this book bring closure to some long-running storylines while introducing fresh conflicts and relationships. I can see this series continuing for quite a while without getting stale. Highly recommended, but I would urge anyone new to start at the beginning of the series.
    • 5/5
      Well, Julia Spencer-Fleming has done it again -- kept me up waaaay past my bedtime to finish reading her latest addition to the Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne series.

      Clare is finally back from Iraq (or was it Afghanistan, I can never remember) and jumps right back into her life at the church as well as getting involved in a suicide/homicide. There are several wounded military in this story, Clare, one of Russ's deputy's, a young marine who lost both legs to an IED, a doctor and a young bookkeeper who worked with her company "in country" as well as being a guard member.

      The damaged veterans all are working through their problems in a therapy group. The beginning of the book does some back and forth in dates but merge into a single timeline not too far into the book. The group therapy is a central feature of this book.

      This is a complicated story with so many twists and turns that it was very engrossing and very hard to put down (thus the late night).

      Those who are watching and waiting for movement in the Clare/Russ relationship will be pleased to know that she doesn't disappoint.

      I saw a review that said this was their favorite book in the series. I think it is a tie with the book where Russ lost his wife. Both hit the emotions hard while maintaining a tension for the mystery that wants you to solve it.

      Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      I was lucky enough to get my hands on a bound manuscript of this. As usual, Spencer-Fleming injects a level of thoughtfulness and humanity into the mystery genre that is rare. If this is (as she says) the last of the series, she has satisfied this fan with this one.
    • 3/5
      Didn't add up at the end, too loosely tied together
    • 4/5
      Clare Ferguson is home from her tour in Iraq, as are several other people in the area of Millers Kill. Not everyone comes back whole, in mind or body. One of Russ's staff is suffering anger management issues, a fatal car accident brings the hated resort into the mix, some of the veterans try group counselling, with mixed results. And then one of the young vets attempts suicide, and the military finance staff show an uncommon interest in another local vet.The story shows the wear, the stress on the men and women who fought in Iraq, and the hard times they face when they return. The mystery is almost secondary to the characters, their struggles and nightmares.
    • 3/5
      One Was a Soldier is the latest in Julia Spencer-Fleming’s series featuring Episcopalian priest Clare Fergusson and Millers Kill police chief Russ Van Alstyne. In this novel, Clare has just returned from a tour of duty in Iraq, where she served as a helicopter pilot with her National Guard unit. The story centers on her adjustment to life at home, as well as the problems of several other returned veterans, who suffer with both physical and mental difficulties. The story begins with a therapy session in which a group of vets gather to begin to handle their memories and readjustment to civilian life, but it is clear that the growing and moving forward that needs to be done will only happen as they learn to deal once again withthe demands of everyday life and their new and old relationships. The therapist is merely there to help tie the group together.As the story progresses, it becomes clear that there is more going on in Millers Kill than the usual small town happenings, as both Clare and Russ struggle to define their own relationship, while dealing with the complications of the pastoral duties of a priest and the role of a police chief. The trail soon leads to the re-investigation of an accident and a supposed suicide, and entanglements with the military police as a crime involving a theft originating in Iraq threatens to tear apart this small New York town.Ms. Spencer-Fleming has created characters dealing with the very real effects of serving in horrific battle situations. She conveys the clear message that memories of horror never go away, and the healing is different for everyone. Her descriptions of the lack of scruples of both civilians and military who take advantage of the situation and line their own pockets is both frightening and thought-provoking. The themes of religion and faith, as well as war and greed create a counterpoint in the book that will leave you pondering for many days to come.
    • 4/5
      This is the first book of Julia Spencer-Fleming's that I have read and that might have contributed to my problem of not being able to keep some of the characters straight. I did enjoy the book and plan to reserve the rest of the series from the library.
    • 5/5
      While I have not read any of the other books in the series, this book had my attention from the beginning. The characters are well developed so that even without having read the previous books, you do not feel that you are missing anything.The plot moves are a good pace and there are no jumps that leave you wondering how they got from point A to B.I would suggest this book to anyone who likes a modern day "who dune it."
    • 3/5
      I love this series, but was disappointed with this book. The author is just way too heavy-handed with her "issue of the book" -- the plight of returning veterans. The whole first half meandered around, without much of anything happening, so we could see the problems these veterans were having. I thought maybe this wasn't going to be a mystery story after all. When we finally got to some action, the book improved. But then, we ended up with this Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew-style plot, where the support group ended up doing the police work. I just couldn't buy it. On the other hand, I loved the end. I have hopes that this is just an anomaly, and there will be another even better to follow. It will be fun to see how Clare and Russ work as a married couple.
    • 4/5
      Sadly, this isn't the first book in by this author about these wonderful characters. BUT, happily, it is a fantastic one!!! I totally enjoyed getting lost in this suspenseful, roller coaster ride of a novel. I really love the way Spencer-Fleming incorporated the suspenseful twists into the heart of the story, while centering the plot line around soldiers. Filled with the intensity of soldiers returning home from war, you get the aspect of being a soldier first hand, through this authors work. Watching Clare return home to Russ was an added element to the story, seeing him waiting for her after an Iraq tour, really brought back memories of my dad being in the military and coming home to my mom. But, that said, when a woman is found dead, the mysterious thrills and suspense really come to life! Russ' investigation is in full swing and the reader is sucked to the heart of the story! I'm a sucker for a military novel and this one just hit home for me. I am truly happy that I got the chance to read a 4 star worthy novel by a superbly talented author! Don't miss this one!
    • 5/5
      On a warm Sep evening in the Millers Kill community center, five veterans sit down in rickety chairs to try to make sense of their experiences in Iraq. What they will find is murder, conspiracy, and the unbreakable ties that bind them to one another and their small Adirondack town. The Rev. Clare Fergusson wants to forget the things she saw as a combat helicopter pilot and concentrate on her relationship with Chief of Police Russ Van Alstyne. MP Eric McCrea needs to control the explosive anger threatening his job as a police officer. Will Ellis, high school track star, faces the reaiity of life as a double amputee. Orthopedist Trip Stillman is denying the extent of his traumatic brain injury. And bookkeeper Tally McNabb wrestles with guilt over the in-country affair that may derail her marriage. But coming home is harder than it looks. One vet will struggle with drugs and alcohol. One will lose his family and friends. One will die.
    • 3/5
      I got this book as an early review ,my first of the series . I gave it a try and read it and was surprised to have enjoyed it, I liked the characters and their stories, so now I'm going to get the rest of the books and read them. A love story between Clare, the Episcopal priest, and Russ, the police chief, of a small New England town of Millers Kill & Iraq returnees.
    • 4/5
      When faithful readers of Julia Spencer-Fleming’s series last saw the Reverend Clare Fergusson she had handed her clerical cross to the man she loves, put her career as a parish priest on hold, and donned desert camo to return to military life as a helicopter pilot in Iraq. It’s been a long tour for Clare and Russ Van Alstyne, and for those faithful readers who waited impatiently as the publication date for this installment was pushed ahead again and again. Finally, Clare is home, and Russ has got her. The wedding is in the works. But where would we all be if everything went smoothly and they both just lived happily ever after? No story there. But there is a story in One Was a Soldier, and it’s another fine one. The complexities of humanity are well-explored, as usual; there’s a suspicious death to puzzle out, shenanigans to decipher (more than one Somebody is lying); Clare is struggling with some post-traumatic stress, and making promises she may not be able to keep… It has all been worth the wait for this reader. As for Clare and Russ…ah, no…no spoilers here. If you’ve been following the series you’re going to read this one anyway. If you haven’t met these characters yet, march yourself to your nearest bookstore or library, pick up a copy of In the Bleak Midwinter and introduce yourself. You’ll be ready for One Was a Soldier before the summer’s over, and dancing around with the rest of us waiting for whatever comes next from Julia Spencer-Fleming’s smokin' hard drive.
    • 5/5
      This is a long-awaited book in the mystery series of Clare Fergusson, an Episcopal priest in upstate New York. Clare had a stint In Iraq with an aviation support group of the National Guard. She and other are part of a support group for those who have suffered some trauma. Clare is trying to keep her post-trauma-stress disorder under wraps, particularly from the Chief of Police (Russ van Alstyen) who is her boy-friend. One of the other returnee women gets killed, and Clare tries to prove murder. The book is not churchy at all. Clare does not wear her priesthood on her sleeves. But there are quotes at every chapter heading from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, which I found very welcoming. These give a sense of pacing and otherness, which makes the novel special.

    Book preview

    One Was a Soldier - Julia Spencer-Fleming

    I BELIEVE IN … THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS …

    —The Apostles’ Creed, The Book of Common Prayer

    MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

    Sarah Dowling’s first thought, peering through the wire-reinforced glass of the community center’s door, was that they were an odd group. Usually returned vets had a lot to talk about with one another, even if they were embarrassed to be seen in counseling. She would have thought that in a tiny town like Millers Kill—she couldn’t help it, she still saw the place as a cross between a Thomas Kinkade painting and Bedford Falls—they’d be even easier together, but none of these soldiers were speaking to each other.

    The two men unracking metal chairs could have been father and son; both middling height, in khakis and button-downs, both with regulation crew cuts—the fifty-something graying, the thirty-something dark brown. The younger man kept glancing sideways at the older as if looking for clues on how to behave. He didn’t pay attention to the young woman opening the chairs in a ragged circle, watching him. She was maybe midtwenties but dressed like a teen, with a little muffin top squeezed between low-rider jeans and a mini-tee. Sarah would have to include her no-romantic-relationships spiel in tonight’s session.

    The other woman in the group was a decade or more older than the little cutie, wearing unrelieved black that almost hid her taut physique. As Sarah watched, she stirred spoon after spoon of sugar into coffee poured from the community hall’s industrial-sized coffeemaker. The last participant—Sarah frowned. A young man, maybe still a teenager. His hair had grown out, indicating he’d been out of the service for several months, at least. Well, she could have guessed that even if he had still been wearing it shaved to the skin. They didn’t let double amputees out of Walter Reed until at least four months after admission. His presence here worried her. If he was having post-amputation issues, he ought to be seeing a psychologist at the VA Hospital, not hanging around an LCT’s group.

    She checked her watch, then gathered up her stack of handouts. Time to get the road on the show. She opened the office door and strode into the meeting room, the soles of her shoes squeaking on the polished wooden floor. Beyond the closed door, she could hear the faint thump and holler of the basketball game going on in the gym. On the far wall, construction-paper letters spelling out HELLO SEPTEMBER were taped over bright cutouts of apples and school buses. A preschool met here mornings. She thought of the stiflingly tasteful tenth-story office she had left behind in Silver Spring. Free at last, free at last.

    Hello, everyone. She gestured toward the chairs. Why don’t we get started? If we have any latecomers, they can join us in progress. She smiled and took her own advice, selecting the twelve o’clock position in the circle. The woman in black pulled two chairs out of the way to make room for the teen in the wheelchair. The rest of the gang of five followed suit, scraping and clunking the cheap chairs until they were all roughly equidistant from one another, and twice as far from her.

    I’m Sarah Dowling, she began. I’m a licensed clinical therapist. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the term, that means I’ve been trained in psychology and in facilitating therapy, but I am not allowed to diagnose or to prescribe medications. She stood up and handed the first stack of papers to the graying man seated to her left. Take one and pass it along. She resumed her seat. I’ve just recently relocated here from the Washington, D.C., area, so this is my first group in New York State. However, I’ve been doing veterans’ counseling and running the on-base family mental health program for the past four years at Fort Meade.

    The older man nodded in approval. Officer, she thought.

    Just to make sure we’re all on the same page, this is not a Veterans Affairs program, although it does receive funding from VA, as well as from New York State and the National Institute of Mental Health. She leaned forward. Participating in our group will not affect your VA benefits or treatment, nor will it be in any official record. For those in the group who would be continuing on in the service, that was often critical. Seeking out therapy was still viewed in many quarters of the military as suspect. Talking about feelings was not a high priority for the average CO.

    I apologize for scheduling the first session on Labor Day, but the community center gave me this time slot, and I didn’t want to lose it. She smiled at them. I was afraid I’d be the only person here, so believe me when I say I’m glad to meet you all. Why don’t we start by introducing ourselves, and saying a little something about our service. She looked encouragingly at the older man.

    He looked around the circle, knitted up his brows as if he didn’t understand the reasoning behind her request, then shrugged. Sure. If you think it’s helpful. He straightened in his seat. I’m George Stillman. The Third. I’m a doctor and a lieutenant colonel in the Army National Guard. I was with a forward surgical team outside Mosul.

    When did you get back, George?

    He smiled a little. Please. Call me Trip. I hear George and I look around for my father.

    Sarah nodded.

    Oh. I got back from my second tour of duty about two months ago.

    The kid in the wheelchair looked at him oddly. Three months ago. You were here in June.

    The doctor stared at the kid for a moment, then wrinkled his face into an apologetic smile. Sorry. We had a death in the family this summer, and I swear it’s thrown my whole sense of time out of kilter. He tapped his palm. I’d better start carrying my PalmPilot around again. My wife calls it my portable brain.

    Sarah smiled reassuringly at him before gesturing to the young man. Would you introduce yourself?

    Yes, ma’am. Marine, she thought, just as he said, I’m Lance Corporal Willem Ellis, of the 5th Marine Division. He looked down at the prosthetics strapped to his knees. Formerly of the 5th Marine Division. He glanced back up at her, then dropped his gaze. I was only in-country a little over two months when this happened, so I can’t say I saw much traumatizing action.

    How ’bout when your mother found out you’d enlisted? Sarah was surprised by the black-clad woman’s accent, a southern Virginia drawl that sounded more out of place up here in the North Country than her own clipped urban consonants.

    Willem Ellis laughed at the woman’s remark. Yeah, I guess that counts as combat. Or at least battle royal.

    And you are…?

    The woman slouched in her seat. Clare Fergusson. There was a pause. Sarah made a go-on gesture. Clare Fergusson sighed. Major in the Guard, 142nd Aviation Support. Stationed in Ramadi, Tikrit, and Kirkuk. She took a long drink from her coffee cup. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

    Aviation support? Sarah said.

    She flies helicopters, the brown-haired man said. Before Sarah could ask, he went on, I’m Eric McCrea. I’m a sergeant. Also in the Guard.

    Did you serve with Major Fergusson?

    No. His gaze slid away from her and came to rest on the doctor. His lip curled up in what might have been a sneer. I’m an MP.

    What were you assigned to? the young woman demanded. Were you on base patrol? At the Green Zone?

    His lips thinned. I was on prisoner detail. Camp Bucca.

    Sarah kept herself from reacting, but the rest of the group stared. They had all seen the pictures.

    That figures. The young woman folded her arms over her generous chest.

    That has nothing to do with it. Eric McCrea’s cheeks blotched with color. You think you know what it was like—

    Sarah held up her hands. Stop right there. She gave both McCrea and the girl a measured look. Let’s not go jumping in the deep end before we’ve finished getting our toes wet. She dropped her hand, opening it to the last person in the circle. Why don’t you introduce yourself.

    The brunette braced her hands on her thighs. My name’s Mary McNabb, but everybody calls me Tally. She looked at Stillman. Sorta like you, I guess. I was formerly a specialist, formerly in the United States Army.

    Where did you serve, Tally?

    Camp Anaconda.

    That got some whistles from the rest. Mortaritaville, Fergusson said.

    Yeah, well. McNabb ran her hands through her short hair.

    Stillman snapped his fingers. Mary McNabb. Fractured left ankle. A car dropped on you?

    McNabb laughed. I was helping my husband fix it up for resale. I’m impressed you remember.

    Sarah put her hands up again. Wait. She looked around the circle. Do you all know each other?

    They looked at each other. They looked at her. Yes, they all said.

    It’s a very small town. Clare Fergusson’s voice was dry.

    Sarah stopped herself before she could ask them to explain. She’d need a clearer picture of their interrelationships eventually, but right now she wanted to focus on opening the first door to whatever issues they might have. We’ll get into that later, she said. I’d like to start by discussing your homecomings.

    MONDAY, JUNE 6

    Their dispatcher, Harlene, had managed to get a red, white, and blue WELCOME HOME, ERIC banner printed up and hung from the front of the Millers Kill Police Department. It billowed and snapped in the warm wind gusting up Main Street.

    We gonna have to do the same thing for Kevin, when he gets back? Deputy Chief Lyle MacAuley squinted in the bright morning sunshine.

    The youngest officer on the MKPD had been shipped off for temporary detached duty almost a year ago, first with the Capital Area Drug Enforcement Association in Albany, then with the Special Investigation Division of the Syracuse PD, which saw more major crimes in two weeks than Millers Kill might see in a year.

    Kevin Flynn’s welcome home is going to be a bump up in pay grade, if I can ram it down the aldermen’s throats. Chief of Police Russ Van Alstyne shook his head. What we really need is another officer on the force. That way, we wouldn’t be overscheduling everybody. I worry that we’re putting Eric back on the streets too soon. A few days ago he was eating MREs and holding down a guard post in Umm Qasr.

    Lyle raised an eyebrow. I’m impressed. The only place I could name in Iraq is Baghdad, and don’t ask me to find it on a map.

    I was in that neck of the woods, remember? First Gulf War. He rubbed the back of his neck. God, doesn’t that feel like an age ago.

    It was. I think Eric was finishing up high school. Kevin was probably still in diapers.

    Hunh. And Lieutenant Clare Fergusson had been twenty-three. They probably already have our beds reserved up at the Infirmary.

    Speak for yourself. I plan to be shot to death by the enraged father of a pair of twenty-year-old twins.

    Russ laughed. Lyle gave him a sideways look. You hear from the reverend lately?

    Russ’s laugh died away. A phone call five days ago. The 142nd is still on target to ship home in three weeks. He tried to smile. Of course, they were on target to leave last March, too. Until their tour got extended.

    She should’a gone into the chaplain’s corps instead of air support. She’d have been home by now. Lyle hooked his thumbs in his duty belt. A year and a half’s a long time.

    Oh, yeah. The longest damn eighteen months of his life, and that included a tour in Vietnam, going cold turkey on cigarettes, and quitting booze. Sitting home night after night, watching the casualty counts mount on the news—hell, giving up drinking again would have been easier. Drinking and smoking.

    How’s she sounding?

    Like she always sounds. Chipper. Everything’s fine. She’s fine. The weather’s fine. Russ glanced up at the banner, the granite, the clear blue sky. You know what the temperature was in Basra that day? A hundred and five degrees. I saw it on CNN. He pinched the bridge of his nose. I can’t decide if she’s so happy flying helicopters again she’s forgotten there’s a war on, or if she’s babying me so I don’t… He looked at Lyle. You know how many helos have crashed or been shot down in Iraq since the beginning of the year? Fifteen. You wanna know how many pilots have been killed?

    No. Lyle held up a hand. Stop it, or you’re going to make yourself crazy. Crazier, he amended. Eric’s home safe and sound, and your lady’ll get here, too.

    Russ touched the spot where, beneath his uniform blouse and undershirt, Clare’s silver cross rested against his chest. She had given it to him for safekeeping the day she left, and he hadn’t taken it off yet. He might not believe in a god, but that didn’t seem to stop him from putting his faith in superstition.

    Eric. Lyle’s tone was deliberately workaday. When I spoke with him, he was hot to get back into investigation, but if you think he needs more time, I can find some desk work to keep him busy.

    What, running down addresses for check bouncers and updating the evidence lists? The last thing I want is for him to think we don’t need him anymore and head off for better-paying pastures. He’s our best investigator, after you.

    MacAuley touched one bristly gray eyebrow and smirked.

    Don’t look so smug, Russ said. Consider the competition.

    A diamond in an ashtray is still a diamond, Lyle said with immense dignity.

    Which made Russ think of his recent purchase. He hadn’t told Lyle about that. He hadn’t told anybody, yet. What if she turned him down? A fifty-two-year-old widower with a bum hip wasn’t any great prize. His phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. Van Alstyne here.

    His wife says he’s on his way. Harlene, who had been at the MKPD longer than Russ and Lyle combined, didn’t believe in deferring to rank. Get in here or you’ll spoil the surprise.

    We’re coming. He shut his phone. Harlene says it’s time to get into the squad room and hide behind a desk.

    I think she does these surprise parties as an excuse to stuff us with sweets until we can’t move.

    Russ thwacked Lyle on his still-flat belly. She’s got a way to go with you, then, old-timer.

    Lyle tugged his uniform blouse into place. I gotta keep my boyish figure. Just in case I find the woman of my dreams hanging around a church or something.

    *   *   *

    Eric thought he might never have had a better moment, standing in the squad room, getting roasted by his brother officers. Harlene was squeezing his arm like she was testing to see if he was done, and the big boxed assortment from the Kreemy Kakes diner was on the scarred table where the chief liked to sit, and the old paint was still flaking beneath the windows, and nothing was changed. Everything was the same.

    Good Lord, Harlene said. How many chin-ups do they make you do in the army? You feel like you could pick me up, and let me tell you, there’s not many men as could do that. She slapped her ample hips.

    Eric wrapped his arms around her midsection and hoisted her a few inches off the floor. She whooped. Now, don’t tell Harold, he said, resettling her solidly on her feet, but I did it all for you. In fact, there just hadn’t been anything to do on his off-hours except sleep and pump iron. He’d heard up in the Green Zone, they had round-the-clock computers, and movies, and clubs, but in Camp Bucca, the only diversions were once-a-week access to a staticky phone line and the occasional smuggled-in bottle of hajji juice—Iraqi moonshine that was rumored to be al Qaeda’s secret weapon against the occupancy.

    Jesum, Eric. MacAuley hitched himself up against one of the desks. We oughta put you in one of them beefcake calendars.

    Eric laughed. I’ll have to ask my wife first.

    Might improve the recruitment rates down to the academy. Harlene fanned herself.

    Only if you’re trying to get girls and gays. Paul Urquhart laced his hands across his expansive middle, as if a beer belly were the mark of a real man. The chief frowned.

    How do you know we don’t already have someone gay on the force, Paul? Hadley Knox picked through a Kreemy Kakes box. Despite her regulation uniform and cropped hair, she looked more like a model in a commercial than a real cop. After all, we’ve already got a girl. She ripped a doughnut in half and popped one piece in her mouth. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever hearing about you going out on a date.

    Urquhart straightened, quivering with outrage. I’m divorced! I’ve got kids!

    Noble Entwhistle squinted, concentrating. He wasn’t the fastest runner off the block, but he had a prodigious memory for people and places. Dr. Dvorak, the ME, was divorced. He’s got grown kids.

    Yeah, and now he’s living with a big bearded guy. Hadley leaned toward Urquhart, her brown eyes filled with sympathy. We’re your fellow officers, Paul. You don’t have to hide who you are with us.

    That’s enough, the chief said.

    Hadley grinned and bit into the other half of her doughnut.

    Eric was laughing into his fist. It was so familiar, so normal and uncomplicated. Man, I missed this place.

    I’m glad to hear it. The chief beckoned to him and stepped away to one of the tall windows. Eric followed him farther out of earshot of the others, who were continuing with jokes at Urquhart’s expense. The chief looked at him, steady, not smiling. How are you? Really?

    Eric spread his hands. You’re ex-army, chief. You know what it’s like.

    Yeah, the chief agreed, but I don’t know if what’s going on over there is like Desert Storm or Vietnam.

    Eric thought of the wire. The prison barracks. It’s not like either of them. I think… The heat, pounding air and dust and dogs flat beneath it. Patrolling dirty streets down to the scummy harbor. It’s its own thing. It’s… The eyes of men, hating on him so hard that if they had had anything—sticks, stones, bottles—he would be dead. He snapped to focus again. Looked at the chief.

    It wasn’t any Caribbean cruise, but I’m okay. He glanced around at the squad room. And I gotta tell you, being back here, with all of you guys, is— He didn’t know what to do, shake his head or nod. It feels real good.

    Good. The chief slapped him lightly on his upper arm. Look, if at any time you’re feeling stressed out, or if you feel like you need to dial back a bit—

    Eric shook his head. That’s not going to happen.

    If it does, the chief emphasized, I want you to come to me. You don’t have to give me any details. You don’t have to justify yourself. Just give me the word, and we’ll lighten things up for you for as long as you need it.

    That’s not going to happen, Eric said again. And it wasn’t. Home was stressful. Trying to deal with a wife who’d been running everything her way for a year was stressful. Discovering his son had gone from being a sweet, goofy kid to a moody irritable teen while he was away was stressful. Getting back to chasing down bad guys? That was pure gravy.

    FRIDAY, JUNE 24

    You here to arrest somebody? The man with the fistful of helium balloons next to Russ grinned.

    Huh? Russ’s focus had been on the hangar-sized doors at the end of the armory. He couldn’t decide if staring at the damn things would make the 142nd Aviation Support Battalion appear sooner or not.

    The man thumbed toward Russ’s brown-and-khakis. That’s not the sort of uniform you expect to see here. He squinted at the MKPD shoulder badge. Millers Kill, huh? I’m from Gloversville. We used to play you guys at b-ball. You rode us hard for the Class E championship in ’69.

    I was on that team, Russ said. Class of ’70.

    Me, too! The man laughed. Hair down to my nipples and a big ‘Peace Now’ headband I never took off. Who’d’a guessed I’d wind up here waiting for my girl to get back from war? He bounced his balloon bouquet in the air.

    Yeah. Same here. Well. Not the long hair bit. Russ clutched the green-paper-wrapped roses he’d gotten from Yarter’s. They’d looked a lot better a few hours ago. How had all those petals fallen off? The waiting for my girl part.

    A harried-looking woman elbowed her way through the crowd, one little kid on her hip and a six- or seven-year-old dragging along in her grip. There you are, she said. You would not believe how far we had to go to reach a bathroom. She handed the little one over to the balloon man. Go to Grandpa, now.

    Grandpa! Grandpa! The seven-year-old pirouetted and leaped. I think I saw the buses!

    The balloon guy—the grandpa—nodded toward Russ. Turns out I played basketball against this fella in high school. He’s meeting his daughter, too.

    His wife smiled at Russ, amused. You’d better stop whacking those flowers against your leg or there won’t be anything left for your girl.

    He could feel the tips of his ears turning pink. It’s not—I’m— He was saved by the rumble of the buses, bumping over the slow strip into the cavernous building, a sound immediately drowned out by the roar of the waiting crowd.

    Russ didn’t join in. He watched the buses maneuvering into place, watched the exhaust rising to the fluorescent lights above, felt the sound and the light rising in him, lifting him off his feet, until he wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself floating through the air like one of those helium balloons.

    The buses parked. The doors slid open. Guardsmen started shuffling down the steps, anonymous in urban camo. Was that her? No. Not that one, either.

    He suddenly couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand one more minute of not seeing her; after counting off the seasons, and then the months, and then the days, and the hours, he realized all the waiting had accumulated, and he was going to be crushed beneath it.

    Clare, he mouthed without speaking. A stab of pain made him look at his palm. He had driven one of the roses’ thorns through the paper and into his flesh.

    The dancing girl had stilled and was looking at his hand. Then she looked up at him. She had hazel eyes and a pointed nose.

    It’s really hard to wait, he said.

    She nodded. My mommy says count to ten, ten times. She’s a helicopter pilot.

    So’s my … friend.

    The little girl reached into her pocket and pulled out a grubby tissue. She handed it to him. Thanks, he said, wiping up the blood.

    Pumpkin, I think I see Mommy, her grandmother said. The girl whirled and danced away. That’s what their daughter would look like, he realized. His and Clare’s.

    Then she stepped off the bus. He almost didn’t recognize her. Beneath her black beret, her hair was short, bleached lighter than he had ever seen it, and her face, all points and angles, was deeply tanned. She was looking around, scanning the crowd, her eyes alight with hope and anxiety.

    The band struck up a tune, combining with squeals from children and the howls of babies to create an echoing cacophony that guaranteed she wouldn’t hear him call her name if he was standing five feet away instead of fifty. Instead, he willed her to find him. Clare. Clare. Clare.

    She paused for a second, closing her eyes, breathing in as if she could taste the far-off Adirondack air above the fog of bus exhaust and machine oil and human sweat. Then she opened her eyes and met his over the heads of the crowd.

    Her mouth formed a perfect O, then curved into a heartbreaking smile. She blinked hard and raised one hand, and then she was bumped from behind by the next man in line and stumbled forward.

    He watched as she lined up with the rest of the brigade and came to attention. When the last guardsman was off the bus and in formation, the band wheezed to a stop. There was a shuffle of dignitaries and brass at the front, and then the families were welcomed, and a minister gave an invocation, and the CO read a letter from the governor, and the XO gave a speech about the brigade’s accomplishments in Iraq, and Russ thwacked and thwacked and thwacked the roses against his leg, until he looked down to see his well-worn service boot decorated with crimson petals.

    Come on already! Come on! What jackass had decided it was a good idea to separate family members from soldiers they hadn’t seen for eighteen months? When he’d come home from Vietnam, he’d just stumbled off a Pan Am flight from Hawaii. Yeah, it wasn’t a hero’s welcome, but at least he got to hug his mom and his sister, not stand at parade rest in front of an officer who sounded like he was running for Congress.

    Finally, finally, the official orders terminating the brigade’s deployment were read, and the CO dismissed his command, his words drowned out at the end by a howl of glee from the waiting crowd as they surged forward, mothers and fathers and wives and children, arms outstretched, too eager to wait any longer.

    Russ stayed where he was as civilians swept past him. She had seen him. She had marked him. He had no doubt she would find him. Sure enough, there she was, wrestling her way through the crowd, beret stowed in her epaulet, rucksack over her shoulder, the reverse image of the woman he had last seen walking away from him beneath a gray January sky eighteen months ago. Major Clare Fergusson. She kept her eyes on him the whole while, an undeveloped smile on her face. She halted in front of him. Dropped the rucksack to the concrete floor. Looked up at him.

    Promised you I’d come back. Her faint Virginia drawl sounded out of place against the North Country Yankee burrs and flat Finger Lakes twangs all around them.

    She didn’t leap into his arms. They had been circumspect for so long, always standing apart, controlling their eyes and hands like nuns in a medieval abbey. They had no easy familiarity with each other’s body. The two weeks they had been lovers—a year and a half ago, before she shipped out—seemed like a fever dream to him now. The small velvet box he had stuffed in his pants pocket suddenly felt like a five-pound brick.

    He thrust the roses toward her. Two more ragged petals fell to the concrete floor. The bouquet looked as if a goat had been chewing on it. She bit her lip, just barely keeping a smile from breaking out. Why, thank you, Chief Van Alstyne. She took the flowers in both hands and buried her face in what remained of them. She had tiny lines etched along the outsides of her eyes that hadn’t been there when she left.

    They don’t have much of a scent. He shoved his hands in his pockets, brushed the velvet box, jerked them out again. But wait till you get to St. Alban’s. You missed the lilacs, but the roses are amazing. You can smell ’em halfway across the park.

    She looked up at him over the fraying flowers, her smile changing to something wistful. I can’t wait.

    He stepped toward her just as she bent to reshoulder her rucksack. She let go, opening her arms in time for him to nearly knock her over as he ducked to grab the duffel for her.

    Screw this. He kicked the canvas sack to one side and took her by the shoulders. C’mere. She folded inside his embrace as if she had always been there, and he kept his arms hard around her, his cheek resting on her too light, too short hair. Letting the reality of her, the warmth and weight and solidity of her, sink into his bones.

    Holding on, she said against his chest.

    Not letting go.

    I want to go home. She tipped her face up. Take me home.

    He smiled. Petersburg, Virginia?

    She shook her head. No. Millers Kill, New York.

    The parking lot was throwing off heat like a griddle in the late June sun. He tossed her rucksack into his truck bed and popped the doors. He thought for a second, then slipped the velvet box from his pants to the driver’s seat pocket. He jumped in, ratcheting the AC to full as soon as the engine caught. Sorry, he said as she climbed into the ovenlike cab. I would’ve kept it on for you, but I didn’t want to risk running out of gas. The army doesn’t seem to have changed its hurry-up-and-wait policy since I was in.

    She laughed. Don’t worry. It’s been so long since I’ve been in an air-conditioned vehicle, I’ve forgotten what it’s like. She unbuttoned her bulky uniform blouse and stripped it off, revealing a gray T-shirt that stretched across her breasts when she twisted to drop the heavy shirt and the roses onto the narrow backseat. His throat went hot and tight. He shifted into gear and rolled out of the lot.

    Do you— He coughed to get his voice under control. Do you want to stop for a bite to eat? I went by the rectory yesterday with the fixings for a couple meals, but I didn’t know what you’d feel like doing. What you’d want to do.

    She stretched her arms toward the vents, which had begun blasting cool air, and closed her eyes. Oh, Lord, this feels good. She smiled, still shut-eyed. Just to be sitting here in a truck without having to wear thirty pounds of Kevlar. She ran her hands flat-palmed down her T-shirt from her collarbone to her waist, a perfectly natural gesture that nearly caused him to swerve over the centerline.

    He corrected with a jerk. Which he was starting to feel like. She had just gotten in from a combat zone, for chrissakes. She still had dust on her boots. She was enjoying the first real freedom she’d had in a year and a half, and all he could do was salivate over her. She’s not a piece of meat, asshole.

    He focused on getting up the ramp and into the flow of traffic on the Northway. The only good thing about the battalion’s delay and the interminable ceremony was that it put them on the road after Albany’s rush hour. In his rearview mirror, the Empire Plaza towers caught the setting sun, their marble and steel surfaces almost too bright to look at.

    From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn toward him, tucking one leg beneath her. You’ve gotten back from more deployments than I have.

    Probably. Definitely. He’d been in more than twenty years. Funny. He’d thought that would make him more sure of himself, welcoming her home.

    What were the first things you always wanted?

    A shower. He didn’t have to think about that one. A home-cooked meal. A bottle of whisky. Sex. He felt the tips of his ears pink up.

    He felt, rather than saw, her slow smile. Well. That’s what I want. A shower, Lord, yes. A home-cooked meal. A bottle of whisky. Sex.

    He took a breath.

    And I can’t wait to celebrate the Eucharist again at St. Alban’s.

    He laughed. I can guarantee you that’s one thing I never considered when coming home.

    Multifaceted, that’s me. She touched the side of his face, curved around his ear, traced his jawbone. What sort of fixins did you put in the fridge?

    He swallowed. Uh. A rotisserie chicken and a bag of salad.

    She slid her hand down until it rested on his thigh. Doesn’t sound very home-cooked to me. Her fingers kneaded his suddenly tense muscles.

    Quick, he said. Quick prep.

    Good. He heard the snick as her seat belt unlatched. I’ve waited eighteen months for you. I think I’m about out of patience. She flipped the console out of the way and slid toward him.

    Buckle up, he said automatically, and then she wrapped her arms around his chest and shoulders and her lips were on his neck, her tongue flickering along his jaw, her teeth worrying his ear.

    He braced against the wheel, arms shaking, trying not to let his head drop back and his eyes close. Clare, he got out. Jesus, Clare… Her hands were all over him, touching him, unbuttoning his uniform blouse, tugging his T-shirt out of his pants. What are you doing, you crazy woman?

    She kissed the corner of his mouth. If you can’t recognize it, it’s been too long.

    He flew through the twin bridges, barely keeping the truck in its lane. I got it all set up for you at the rectory. His voice was a grating whisper. I got candles.

    I hope they’re in better shape than your flowers. She pried his belt buckle apart.

    He gritted his teeth. I was shooting for romantic.

    I don’t need romance, she said. You had me at ’Scuse my French.’

    She laughed against the back of his neck, and he laughed, and he said, God, I love you, and her hand closed around him and he groaned, laughed and groaned and shook. Stop.

    She pulled his T-shirt away from his neck and bit into his shoulder. Do you mean that?

    God! No. He thumped the back of his head against the headrest. I mean yes. He flapped a hand at her in a half-assed way. I don’t want to make love with you for the first time in a year and a half in my goddamn truck.

    I missed you, she said into his skin. Oh, my love. I missed you so much. She stroked him, once, twice, three times. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Exit 14 was coming up fast. He could pull off there. Where could they go? It wasn’t dark enough to park behind—he lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror and saw the whirling red-and-whites behind him.

    Oh, shit, he said. Clare, get off me. He glanced at the speedometer. Eighty miles an hour. He jerked his foot off the gas and signaled to pull over.

    Clare looked back over the edge of the seats. Uh-oh. Is that what I think it is?

    Sit down and buckle up. One-handed, he attempted to zip back up and refasten his belt.

    Can I help you with that?

    I think you’ve helped quite enough, don’t you?

    Laughing, she swung back into her seat and put on her seat belt.

    Christ. He brought the truck to a standstill and turned off the ignition before stuffing his T-shirt back into his pants. Let’s hope it’s not somebody I know.

    In his side mirror, he saw the state trooper get out of his car. Russ placed his hands on the steering wheel in plain sight. Clare had hers over her mouth, trying—not very successfully—to stifle her laughter.

    The trooper reached Russ’s window and signaled him to roll it down. Russ complied. The trooper glanced into the cab, taking in Russ’s radio and switch light, the lockbox and roses in the back, and Russ’s crumpled uniform blouse, hanging loose over his T-shirt.

    License and registration, please.

    Russ reached for his rear pocket. I’m retrieving my billfold, he told the statie. Clare, will you get my registration out of the glove box? He waited until she had gotten the slip of paper, then passed both documents through the window.

    The trooper studied them. Sir, he said, are you a peace officer?

    Russ sighed. Yes, I am.

    In Millers Kill?

    That’s right.

    Can I see your identification, please?

    Russ flipped open his billfold and handed it to the guy. The trooper studied the badge and ID. Looked up at Russ. "Chief Van Alstyne?"

    Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

    That’s correct, Trooper— he peered at the man’s name tag—Richards.

    Richards handed the billfold, license, and registration back to him. Mark Durkee’s in my troop. He was one of yours, right? He speaks very highly of you.

    Russ couldn’t think of a good response to that.

    Do you know why I stopped you, sir?

    I was driving fifteen miles over the posted limit with an unbelted passenger in the front seat.

    Actually, sir, when I first picked you up, you were going twenty-five miles over the speed limit. I’ve been following you for eight miles. You didn’t notice me?

    I was … distracted.

    Trooper Richards looked at Clare, who was doing her best good-soldier imitation. I see.

    She’s just gotten back from Iraq, Russ said inanely.

    Welcome home, ma’am. The trooper eyed Russ. "I don’t need to lecture you on the importance of safe driving, do I,

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1