Lois and Elizabeth did not look at Clare.

"Hard to picture her in uniform," Mr. Hadley went on, unaware of the charged atmosphere. "Allus wanted to be an actress when she was little. Pretty enough for it, too. But I guess it's hard to make a livin' at it."

"I'm praying for her," Clare said. "Let me know if there's anything more concrete I can do."

"Eh." He fished a less-than-clean handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face with it. "If you know anybody in the police department, you can put in a good word."

Lois choked, coughed, and grabbed for her water bottle. "You okay?" the oblivious sexton asked.

Red-faced, Lois waved him off. "Fine," she gasped.

"You'd better get going if you want to make that school bus." Clare glared at the secretary, who was thumping herself on the chest. "We'll make sure Lois doesn't swallow any more words the wrong way."

" 'Kay. See ya tomorrow. 'Bye, Father." Mr. Hadley thumped off up the hall.

Lois blinked several times, then ran her fingers through her strawberry-blond bob, restoring it to its usual razor-cut perfection. "Let's see. Where were we?"

Clare decided discretion was the better part of valor. "Holy Week. We need three more readers, and somebody has to let the AA group know their meeting is going to conflict with the Stations of the Cross."

"Why do you let that man call you Father?" Elizabeth smoothed her Chanel-style jacket over her woolen shift. She was the only woman Clare had ever seen who managed to turn a Little Black Dress into clergy wear. "Don't you worry he's being satiric? Denigrating your authority?" Elizabeth was big on clerical authority.

"People can call me what they want. At least it's grammatical, which is more than you can say about Reverend."

"How about Mother?" Lois suggested.

"Only if followed by Superior." Clare shook her head. "The only gender-neutral title that's both proper and traditionally Anglican is bishop, so that's what I'm going to shoot for. How do you think I'd look in a purple shirt, Elizabeth?"

A shout down the hall saved the older woman from coming up with a tactful lie.

"Clare! Reverend Clare!" Laurie Mairs appeared in the doorway. "It's Mr. Hadley! Come quick!"

Clare pelted down the hall, the flower guild member close behind her. The door to the sanctuary had been left open, and as she burst through into the church, she could see Mr. Hadley collapsed near the center aisle, his face half in a puddle of vomit.

"Oh, my God," Clare said.

Delia Hall, the other volunteer, was dancing back and forth, unable either to go to the fallen man's aid or to back away. "Oh, Clare, thank heavens! He sat down on the pew, like he was tired, and then he simply toppled over! Do you think he's-could it be-" She tipped an invisible bottle to her mouth. The Sexton's Closet was rumored to have its own stock.

"No." Clare knelt by the sexton. His face was pale, damp with sweat where it wasn't smeared with vomit. She touched his cheek. "Mr. Hadley?" He was clammy beneath her hand.

He pawed at his chest. "Heavy." His gravelly voice was so low she could barely hear him. "Can't…" He worked like a baby with croup, struggling for each breath.

"Clare?" Elizabeth 's voice was calm. Clare hadn't seen her come in. "What can I do?"

"Call nine-one-one. I think he's having a heart attack." She glanced up at the flower guild ladies. "Delia, get a wet soapy towel. Laurie, something to dry him with. We can at least clean him up."

The fifteen minutes before the Millers Kill Emergency Squad arrived was one of the longest in Clare's life. She thought every heave of Mr. Hadley's chest was going to be his last. The whoop and clatter of the ambulance was like the sound of an angelic host, and she could have kissed the paramedics when they hurried through St. Alban's great double doors.

"Heya, Reverend Clare, whatcha got?" Duane Adams, who cobbled together a living as a part-time cop, part-time firefighter, and part-time EMT, didn't spare her a glance in greeting her. He and his partner knelt by Mr. Hadley.

Clare backed out of their way, bumping into Elizabeth, who had returned to keep watch with her. "His name's Glenn Hadley. He's-um, seventy-four."

Duane's partner was strapping an oxygen mask over Mr. Hadley's face, sliding a blood pressure cuff on his arm.

"Any history you know of?" Duane asked.

"He smokes. He's got diabetes, but he doesn't take insulin shots for it." She rubbed her arm. "I didn't know what to do for him, other than try to make him comfortable."

"You called us," Duane said. "That's what you do." His partner unslung a radio and was rattling off a string of jargon and numbers. The only thing Clare recognized was "MI."

"They're calling it in at Glens Falls," the EMT said.

"Okay." Duane stood. "Let's get him on the stretcher."

" Glens Falls Hospital? Why not Washington County?" As soon as she said it, she knew. It was serious. Too serious for their small local hospital to handle. The bad stuff always went to Glens Falls.

"They'll want him straight to the cardiac cath lab. Any next of kin?" Duane asked.

"Oh, my Lord, his grandkids." Clare looked at Elizabeth. "I don't even know how to reach Hadley."

"You go get the children," Elizabeth said. "I'll follow the ambulance to the hospital."

"Good." Clare didn't wait to see the paramedics remove Mr. Hadley. She dashed back to her office and grabbed her coat and keys. "Lois," she yelled, "call the police station and see if they can pass on a message to Hadley Knox." She stopped in the door of the main office, shrugging into her coat. "Mr. Hadley's had a heart attack. He's headed for Glens Falls. I'm picking up her kids and bringing them back here."

"I'm on it." Lois reached for the phone.

As Clare slopped across the tiny parking lot, wet from the melt of the last stubborn snow piles, she heard the ambulance siren rise like a screaming bird into the air. Lord, be with them, she prayed. Be with us all.

Hadley picked a fuzz ball off her wool skirt. It was an old A-line, left behind in the closet of her grandfather's house from a Christmas visit. She had needed something to go to Midnight Mass in, and back then she had enough money to buy something she was only going to use once. Well, she'd gotten her dollar's worth from it now. She had worn it on every job interview in the past two months. Too bad the only thing it had gotten her were a few long looks at her legs.

The man scrutinizing her paperwork had certainly checked her out, coming up the hallway to the squad room and going toward his desk at the far end of the room. She hoped it was because he was a cop and not because he was going to be trouble. She eyeballed his desk. A mug with a bunch of pens. A brass nameplate: LYLE MACAULEY, DEPUTY CHIEF. No pictures of the wife. Not that that always meant anything.

Being a good-looking woman in a male-dominated field was tricky. She had always been able to handle her co-workers okay, but catching the eye of a superior meant trouble for everybody. There wasn't going to be any privacy here; it looked like everyone on the force worked out of this room. Five desks, a bunch of chairs, and a big old wooden table. File cabinets, whiteboard, and maps squeezed in between tall, elegant windows from another age. We're not in California anymore, Toto.

"You've got great scores here." Lyle MacAuley held up the results from her NYS Police Test.

"Thanks." She shifted in her sturdy metal seat.

"And your scores from the California Department of Corrections are good, too. You worked for them two years?"

"Three." She knew what was coming next. "I got laid off in a budget cutback. If you look on my résumé, you'll see my supervisor is one of my references."