"I'd like to find out more about what happened at the rectory Sunday night," Corlew said.

"Hear, hear," Sterling said.

Clare sighed. Laid her pen atop her stack of papers. Reminded herself to relax her shoulders.

"Amado Esfuentes, our temporary sexton, robbed Clare and then took off," Elizabeth said.

Clare felt her shoulders bunch right up again. "We have no proof of that, Elizabeth."

"I already heard that." Corlew waved the deacon's words away with an irritated expression. "I mean, was there any damage to the rectory? Do we have any insurance exposure?" He turned to Clare. "After all, you did invite the little weasel to come in and make himself at home."

"Now, Robert." Mrs. Marshall gave Clare a small smile. "I think Clare realizes that was not, perhaps, the best idea. No need to belabor the point."

"The point is that it's far too dangerous for any member of St. Alban's to be driving these wetbacks around to the welfare office or Roman Masses or what have you." Sterling Sumner jerked his silk aviator's scarf for emphasis. "We never should have gotten involved with that nun's ministry. Let the papists take care of their own, I say."

Clare was caught between open-mouthed outrage at the range of Sterling's bigotry and amazement that someone could use the word 'papist' in a sentence in this century.

"I don't agree with Sterling's sentiments," Geoff Burns said, "but I have to concur that we need to suspend the migrant worker outreach immediately." He turned toward Clare. "I'm the last person to say guilty until proven innocent, but I already have two Hispanic clients awaiting trial for drug charges. There are some bad people out there, Clare."

"And you can tell they're bad by the color of their skin?" Clare's voice rose. She swallowed and tried again. "St. Alban's volunteers are reaching dozens of men each week, providing them with cell phone service, transportation, and access to the free clinic." She nodded toward Mrs. Marshall, whose mother had founded the health center. "It's one of our most successful outreach programs, and it doesn't cost the church a dime."

"We have reimbursed for gas," Terry said. Clare gave him an exasperated look. "Just being accurate," he said.

"Oh, sure." Corlew glowered at Clare. "It's all wine and roses until one of our congregation gets mugged, just like you would have been if you'd been home Sunday night instead of playing kissy-face with Russ Van Alstyne."

"I was not-"

Mrs. Marshall giggled. It was such an unexpected sound-like hearing the Queen of England snicker-they all stared.

Clare recovered first. "Señor Esfuentes may well have been a victim of crime, instead of a perpetrator. There's no conclusive evidence either way."

"In which case," Sterling said, "he may have fallen prey to this serial killer who seems to be haunting our area. Which brings me straight back to the central thesis: We cannot condone our people hanging about with men who may be targeted for violence at any moment."

"So you're saying we should dictate to our volunteers? Tell them we've decided it's too risky for them to be driving around the mean streets of Cossayuharie? Shouldn't they be able to make that call on their own?" She turned to Corlew. "Robert, you're a Republican, for heaven's sake. Don't you believe in individual responsibility?"

"Not," he said, "when we're in a position to get sued."

The meeting devolved into a wrangling session. Clare got the board to agree that volunteers who signed a statement that any further migrant outreach on their part was entirely a personal decision could continue. After all, how could the vestry stop them? But there would be no more central communication and coordination by St. Alban's. They never did get back to the question of the education director. By the time the Civil War-era grandfather clock chimed the hour, Clare was seething. From the way the vestry members tossed their goodbyes and hurried out the door, she knew she was doing a lousy job of hiding her feelings.

Elizabeth de Groot fluttered up to her after everyone else had left. "Clare," she said, in her cultivated voice, "I know this is a disappointment to you, but I'm sure that in time you'll see-"

"Elizabeth," Clare said, "don't you have something to do?"

The deacon looked at her hesitantly. "Uh, yes. Hospital visits."

"Then I suggest you go forth, spreading the good news of Jesus Christ." And leave me the hell alone.

Clare was sitting on the priceless antique table, wrapped in a blue devil, when Lois stuck her head in the door. "Want me to put away the leftovers?" she asked, waving toward the remaining sandwiches and chips.

"Thanks, Lois. Go ahead and take your lunch break. I'll carry this downstairs and put it in the fridge. I can deliver the sandwiches to the shelter later."

She found a plastic grocery bag in her office and tossed the chips in. Hanging it over her arm, she collected the sandwich platter and tottered downstairs to the church kitchen. The lights in the hall were already on. Good Lord, had she forgotten to turn them off after she and Lyle MacAuley went through the place Sunday night?

Wonderful. Another collection plate for the National Grid Power Company.

Then she heard a step behind her.

She whirled, saw the shape of a man emerge from the sexton's closet, and screamed. She was raising the tray in self-defense, hitting herself in the chest with the bag of chips, when the man said, "Father? It's just me."

She lowered the food. The sandwiches slid toward her, mashing into her stomach, mayonnaise and tuna smearing over the black cotton. "Mr. Hadley," she said. She cleared her throat to steady her voice. "You startled a year's growth out of me."

"Grampa? What was that?" At the other end of the hall, Hadley Knox's little girl popped out of the nursery. "Are you okay?"

Her big brother stepped into the hallway beside her. "Should I call Mom?"

"No! G'back inside, you two. I just startled the Father some." He ran one hand over his bald scalp. "Din't mean to scare you. We got here when you was meeting with the vestry. Din't want to interrupt."

"No, no." She looked down at the mess on her clerical blouse. "I was going to put this in the fridge." She looked at the sexton. He was in his usual work clothes: baggy, stained twill pants and a plaid shirt. He had a backpack in one hand, and even from several feet away she could smell cigarette smoke. "What are you doing here?"

"Honey told me 'bout the Mexican boy disappearing. I figgured it was time for me to get back on the job."

"With the kids in tow?" Another thought occurred to her. "Has your doctor-" the bag of chips was beginning to cut into her wrist. "Let me get rid of this, hmm?" He followed her down the hall into the semisubterranean kitchen. She laid the sandwich platter and the chips on the wide center island. "There are some sodas left in the meeting room. Would the kids like lunch?"

"Don't want to be no bother." He waved his hand in the vague direction of her upper body. "Better take care of that stuff on your shirt, there. 'Fore it stains."

She grabbed a dishcloth and turned on the cold water. "Has your doctor given you the okay to go back to work?"

He grunted. "Somebody's got to. This place ain't gonna clean itself, y'know."

She looked up from scrubbing the mayo off her blouse. "Does your granddaughter know you're here?"

Mr. Hadley shifted from foot to foot. "Long as I'm watching the kids and they ain't parked in front of the TV like she axed, I don't see as it makes no never mind where we are."

"Mr. Hadley-"

He lifted the backpack and placed it next to the sink. "I found this in my closet. Figgured it belonged to the Mexican."

She recognized it now. Amado had been carrying that bag when she had come to pick him up at the McGeochs' farm. Before the choir concert. Before the Christies invaded her church. Before Russ-