Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page B
Authors: Julia Spencer-Fleming
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DeJean’s alleged reformation.
“He got counseling for domestic abusers in prison,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Anger management, dealing with conflict, that sort of thing.”
“Bunch of crap,” Johnson said. “Women-beaters never change. They’re like pedophiles. Best thing to do would be to put them down like rabid dogs.”
“Lewis!” Mrs. Johnson sat back down. “He doesn’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hector sees Mikayla every month or two,” she said. “Not since she’s been in foster care, of course, because he doesn’t have any legal claim to her.”
“Has he ever been violent with Mikayla?” Hadley asked. “Has she ever expressed any fear of him?”
Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “No. He’s living with a woman named Dede … something or the other.”
“Probably beating that woman, too. She just doesn’t have the brains to leave him.”
“Oh, Lewis, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’ll tell you something.” Johnson raised his finger and looked directly into Kevin’s eyes. “When your sergeant was here last night, telling us what had happened, the first person I thought of was Hector DeJean. I don’t care if he’s living with the Blessed Virgin and the infant Christ, that man is completely capable of killing two innocent people and burning their house down.”
3.
Clare lasted an hour ice fishing. In the five years since she’d moved to the southern Adirondacks, she had learned to enjoy certain winter sports. Cross-country skiing. Snowshoeing. Sports that involved activity, and movement, and working up a sweat.
“I’ve got it all set up for us,” Russ said, as he shouldered a large duffel bag and helped her off the embankment and onto the ice. She was still enough of a native Virginian to get a thrill when she stepped onto a frozen lake. They walked between the cabin’s dock and the boathouse, which, she discovered, was basically a garage. If a garage had a floor of solid ice.
“The easement allows us to bump the boathouse ceiling up a few feet, which means I can build a good-sized guest room above the docking part,” Russ said. He went on about the solar panels and heating the place and water reclamation while Clare marveled at the landscape—the waterscape?—unfolding as they walked farther and farther from the embankment. Hemlocks and fir trees and eastern white pine crowded the shore as far as the eye could see, anchoring the glaring white expanse with their dark green solidity. The ice beneath their boots was a pale layering of translucent brightness and cloudy depth, bordered by irregular drifts of snow. It reminded her, she realized, of the rocky desert plains of Iraq, and she had a sudden prickling sensation between her shoulder blades. They were completely exposed. Completely vulnerable. She must have made some noise, because Russ cut himself off and said, “Are you okay?”
“Just … the space. For a moment, it felt like we were about to get lit up with mortar fire.”
“Do you want to go back?”
She took a firmer grip on his arm. “No. Just keep talking. How long is Inverary?”
“About nine miles.” He pointed to the east. “That’s where that little cluster of year-round houses and the store are. You can’t see them from here because the lake curves slightly.”
“Are you kidding? I can barely see the houses over there.” She nodded toward the opposite shore.
“Well, this is the widest part of the lake. It’s a good mile across at this end.”
“Are there any homes on the little island?” Truth to be told, it didn’t look that little as they got closer to it. It humped up from the ice like a mythic world-turtle, dark and shaggy green.
“No. That’s part of the conservation area. I understand it’s a nice place to row out and have a picnic in the summer.”
“It’s hard to imagine this place crowded with people and boats and campers. It feels like we’re the last two human beings on earth out here.”
“There’s always
“He got counseling for domestic abusers in prison,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Anger management, dealing with conflict, that sort of thing.”
“Bunch of crap,” Johnson said. “Women-beaters never change. They’re like pedophiles. Best thing to do would be to put them down like rabid dogs.”
“Lewis!” Mrs. Johnson sat back down. “He doesn’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hector sees Mikayla every month or two,” she said. “Not since she’s been in foster care, of course, because he doesn’t have any legal claim to her.”
“Has he ever been violent with Mikayla?” Hadley asked. “Has she ever expressed any fear of him?”
Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “No. He’s living with a woman named Dede … something or the other.”
“Probably beating that woman, too. She just doesn’t have the brains to leave him.”
“Oh, Lewis, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’ll tell you something.” Johnson raised his finger and looked directly into Kevin’s eyes. “When your sergeant was here last night, telling us what had happened, the first person I thought of was Hector DeJean. I don’t care if he’s living with the Blessed Virgin and the infant Christ, that man is completely capable of killing two innocent people and burning their house down.”
3.
Clare lasted an hour ice fishing. In the five years since she’d moved to the southern Adirondacks, she had learned to enjoy certain winter sports. Cross-country skiing. Snowshoeing. Sports that involved activity, and movement, and working up a sweat.
“I’ve got it all set up for us,” Russ said, as he shouldered a large duffel bag and helped her off the embankment and onto the ice. She was still enough of a native Virginian to get a thrill when she stepped onto a frozen lake. They walked between the cabin’s dock and the boathouse, which, she discovered, was basically a garage. If a garage had a floor of solid ice.
“The easement allows us to bump the boathouse ceiling up a few feet, which means I can build a good-sized guest room above the docking part,” Russ said. He went on about the solar panels and heating the place and water reclamation while Clare marveled at the landscape—the waterscape?—unfolding as they walked farther and farther from the embankment. Hemlocks and fir trees and eastern white pine crowded the shore as far as the eye could see, anchoring the glaring white expanse with their dark green solidity. The ice beneath their boots was a pale layering of translucent brightness and cloudy depth, bordered by irregular drifts of snow. It reminded her, she realized, of the rocky desert plains of Iraq, and she had a sudden prickling sensation between her shoulder blades. They were completely exposed. Completely vulnerable. She must have made some noise, because Russ cut himself off and said, “Are you okay?”
“Just … the space. For a moment, it felt like we were about to get lit up with mortar fire.”
“Do you want to go back?”
She took a firmer grip on his arm. “No. Just keep talking. How long is Inverary?”
“About nine miles.” He pointed to the east. “That’s where that little cluster of year-round houses and the store are. You can’t see them from here because the lake curves slightly.”
“Are you kidding? I can barely see the houses over there.” She nodded toward the opposite shore.
“Well, this is the widest part of the lake. It’s a good mile across at this end.”
“Are there any homes on the little island?” Truth to be told, it didn’t look that little as they got closer to it. It humped up from the ice like a mythic world-turtle, dark and shaggy green.
“No. That’s part of the conservation area. I understand it’s a nice place to row out and have a picnic in the summer.”
“It’s hard to imagine this place crowded with people and boats and campers. It feels like we’re the last two human beings on earth out here.”
“There’s always
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