“He doesn’t have to speak to her if he doesn’t want to.”

“He does if he wants her to give the go-ahead to relook at all that evidence. Besides, he’s so convinced he’s right and his wife’s not dead, he’ll probably talk himself right into a jail cell without realizing what he’s saying.”

“Has he asked for a lawyer?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Okay, I’m going to get someone. He needs an attorney there. If you can think of any way to stall him from giving a statement, do it.”

“I suppose I could go in there and spill coffee on everyone.”

“Whatever. I’m going to follow up on this kid he wanted to talk with, since it looks like nobody else will. I’ll come to the station as soon as I’m done. And Harlene?”

“Ayeah?”

“Let his mother know what’s going on?”

“Will do.”

As soon as Harlene was off the line, Clare called her junior warden.

“Law Offices of Burns and Burns,” the receptionist said. Clare thought, not for the first time, that the name sounded like a line from a hemorrhoid commercial.

“This is Reverend Clare Fergusson. I need to speak to Geoff Burns.”

“Mr. Burns is busy. May I take a message?”

“No, you may not. It’s an emergency. Get him out of his meeting or the bathroom or wherever he is, but I have to speak with him now.”

“Oh,” the receptionist squeaked. “Okay. In that case, please hold.”

The receptionist’s voice was replaced by the Beatles singing “Something in the Way She Moves.” The Burnses definitely had a higher class of easy listening music than the police department. Sir Paul McCartney had just reached “Something in the way she moves me” when he was cut off by an irritated Geoffrey Burns.

“Clare? What the hell’s going on? Heather hauled me out of a conference call. What’s the emergency?”

“The state police have taken over the Van Alstyne murder. Their investigator has Russ in custody at the police department, and she’s about to question him.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll confess and save all us taxpayers the cost of a trial.”

“Geoff. I want you to get over there and represent him.”

“Him? Sheriff Matt Dillon? The guy who thinks the only things left alive after the bomb goes off will be cockroaches and lawyers? This is what I canceled a possible snowmobile personal injury case for?”

“Please, Geoff. I’ve never asked you to do anything before.”

“Sure you have. Plenty of times.”

“Church business doesn’t count. I mean for me. Personally.”

There was a long pause. “I’m not giving him any sort of discounted rate.”

“Full freight,” she guaranteed. “His mother’s probably already on her way down there with a checkbook.”

“Has he actually been arrested yet?”

“No. Harlene Lendrum told me Investigator Jensen wanted to get him to make his statement first.”

“Typical lazy policing,” Geoff said. “Trying to get the defendant to make their case for them. I’m on my way. Anything else vital for me to know?”

She hesitated. “He’s convinced his wife’s still alive.”

“Oh, Gawd.” Burns groaned. “I warn you, I charge more for crazy people.”

Fat snowflakes were spinning out of the leaden sky and splattering against her Subaru’s windshield by the time Clare saw the sign she was looking for: MILLERS KILL 8 MILES, FORT HENRY 11 MILES. She turned off Route 9 onto Sacandaga Road, which wound through farmlands and woodlots and crossed the Hudson River twice before curling beneath the footprint of the mountains to enter the town at the western edge.

Her route ran past the entrance to the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort, the narrow switchback road marked by stone pillars and a softly lit oval sign, partially covered now by a CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sheet. A mile or so after it was the Stuyvesant Inn, its riotous Victorian paintwork grayed into ghost colors by the falling snow.

She spotted the turnoff to Old Route 100. A battered blue and gold sign announced she was on a historic trail, but she didn’t need to stop and read it to know that the road beneath her tires had been old before Henry Hudson sailed the Half Moon up the river that was to bear his name. The broad and easy trail led Mohawks into the mountains for autumn hunting and to the river for springtime fishing. War parties of Algonquins and Mohicans, French soldats, and British infantrymen widened it and rutted it with cannon tracks. When the canals and the mills brought money into the area, it became a corduroy post road, and when the Depression emptied out the coffers, it was paved by the WPA.

She knew all this, not from the sign-had she ever been anywhere that marked as many historic spots as New York?-but from a book that Russ had given her. He loved this place, loved its history and its geography, loved its weather and its seasons; even, although he wouldn’t describe it as such, loved the people he tried to guard from every bad thing.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? A phrase from third-year Latin. She saw the MacEntyres’ mailbox through the scrim of snow and flicked on her turn signal. Who guards the guardians?

I guess that would be me and You, Lord.

The house she turned into was similar to many along this stretch of Old Route 100, a comfortably sized prebuilt installed, in all likelihood, over the bones of the last house after the owners tallied the costs of modernizing the heating, plumbing, and electrical systems and discovered it was cheaper to knock down the old and truck in the new. Farmers could not afford sentiment. Across the road, a well-kept barn at least three times the size of the house stood like a garrison, its fields running away into snowmists behind.

She parked behind a Ford Taurus with MY CHILD IS AN HONORS STUDENT AT CLINTON MIDDLE SCHOOL plastered on the bumper and an overmuscled, football-clutching Minuteman stickered to the rear window. It occurred to her, as she stepped out into the falling snow, that she had no idea what she was going to say to the MacEntyres. They weren’t members of her parish; they weren’t involved with counseling; she wasn’t marrying or burying any of them. She wouldn’t have to be here if the Millers Kill Police Department hadn’t been hijacked by that state police investigator. It would be a miracle if the MacEntyres didn’t send her packing within the first sixty seconds.

She rang the bell. Okay, God. I hope You have something, because I don’t.

The door opened. A brown-haired woman in jeans and a sweater stood there, smiling with the reserved politeness country people greeted strangers with. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Clare said. “I’m Clare Fergusson, I’m from St. Alban’s Church-”

The woman’s smile thinned. “Thanks very much, but we belong to High Street Baptist.” She started to close the door.

“Please!” Clare threw her hand against the edge of the door. “I’m not trying to raise money or convert you or get you to sign a petition. I’m here because of Linda Van Alstyne’s murder.”

“What?” The woman frowned, but she opened the door wider.

“Are you Aaron MacEntyre’s mother?”

“I’m Vicki MacEntyre, yeah.” She studied Clare for a fraction of a second, then said, “Better come on in before we let all the heat out.”

Clare brushed the snow off her jacket and stepped inside onto a large square of tiling that kept incoming boots and shoes from immediately soiling the wall-to-wall carpeting rolling out through the rest of the living room.

“What did you say your name was?” Vicki MacEntyre crossed the room and snapped off the widescreen TV, cutting Oprah off midsentence.

“Clare. Clare Fergusson. I’m a friend of Russ Van Alstyne’s.”

“The chief of police?”

“Yeah,” Clare said. She shucked off her parka and held it beneath her arm. “A friend of your son’s told Russ that they saw a car parked in the Van Alstynes’ driveway the day Linda Van Alstyne was killed. I was hoping your son might have noticed something.”