I Shall Not Want
Julia Spencer-Fleming
Praise for
JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING
and her novels
I SHALL NOT WANT
“Good plotting and writing…with characters that fans care about.”
—Omaha World-Herald
“An appealing new character…Spencer-Fleming never disappoints.”
—Charlotte Observer
“With each book, Spencer-Fleming just keeps getting better.”
—Richmond Times Dispatch
“Another suspenseful and involving mystery from an outstanding writer.”
—Library Journal
“Tantalizing…Keenly moving and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny, this is a tour de force in a series that seems to have jumped several levels in quality.”
—Booklist (starred review)
ALL MORTAL FLESH
“Subtle, intense, tough, tender, intelligent…the best yet in an already amazing series.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child
“Intricately plotted…packs plenty of surprises…a hybrid amateur sleuth/police procedural with a healthy dose of romance…there’s much to recommend this novel, including a pair of personable, complex protagonists.”
—Boston Globe
“Spencer-Fleming does it again! Taut prose, brilliant pacing and two of the most interesting characters around make All Mortal Flesh all the mystery you could desire.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner
“In a story as unpredictable as its characters, the resolution takes this series in a direction that should give the good bishop heart palpitations.”
—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
“Captivating…fans, once they start reading, will hang Do Not Disturb signs on their doors.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The latest entry in Spencer-Fleming’s intelligently written series puts the relationship between Clare and Russ on a new track while once again broaching some thoughtful questions about religion, relationships, and morality in the modern world.”
—Booklist
“[A] dizzying roller coaster of a ride, with one wholly unexpected plot twist after another following in rapid succession. And just when things seem sorted out at last, the author has one last surprise in store for the reader, one that raises all sorts of questions about where the series is headed.”
—Denver Post
OUT OF THE DEEP I CRY
“The third and most densely textured mystery in a series by Julia Spencer-Fleming that brings new airs and graces to the traditional small-town mystery.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A poignant and provocative mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“One of the great pleasures in a mystery reviewer’s life is watching a promising series take root and blossom into something strong and unusual. Out of the Deep I Cry…is a perfect example.”
—Baltimore Sun
A FOUNTAIN FILLED WITH BLOOD
“The plot is complicated, and the ethical issues are even thornier. Wisely, Spencer-Fleming treats them with the same delicacy she extends to Clare’s forbidden love.”
—The New York Times
“[Spencer-Fleming] pulls it off again.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Spencer-Fleming’s second cozy-cum-thriller to feature the Reverend Clare Fergusson…is every bit as riveting as her first…With eloquent exposition and natural dialogue, the precisely constructed plot moves effortlessly to its dramatic conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Even more action, more plot twists, and more unconsummated romance than in Clare and Russ’s notable debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Serious issues…add depth to the story. An exciting mountain rescue keeps the pages turning as the pace picks up at the end.”
—Booklist
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER
“Atmospheric. . .[a] freshly conceived and meticulously plotted whodunit.”
—The New York Times
“Superb!”
—Library Journal
“Terrific action scenes…what really distinguishes In the Bleak Midwinter, however, is the author’s skillful portrayal of her protagonist’s inner conflict.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A riveting page-turner from start to finish.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Also by Julia Spencer-Fleming
All Mortal Flesh
To Darkness and to Death
Out of the Deep I Cry
A Fountain Filled with Blood
In the Bleak Midwinter
Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
I SHALL NOT
WANT
Julia Spencer-Fleming
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
I SHALL NOT WANT
Copyright © 2008 by Julia Spencer-Fleming.
Excerpt from One Was a Soldier copyright © 2009 by Julia Spencer-Fleming.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-93399-1
EAN: 978-0-312-93399-9
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / June 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / May 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the librarians and libraries who have taught me,
shaped me, befriended me,
and recommended me, including:
The Alfred C. O’Connell Library, Genesee Community College, Batavia, NY; Baldwinsville Library, Baldwinsville, NY; Bangor Public Library, Bangor, ME; Berwick Public Library, Berwick, ME; Beverly Public Library, Beverly, MA; Boothbay Harbor Public Library, Boothbay, ME; Clifton Park–Half Moon Public Library, Clifton Park, NY; Crandall Library, Glens Falls, NY; Delaware County Library, Delaware, OH; The Dwight Foster Memorial Library, Ft. Atkinson, WI; Edwardsville Public Library, Edwardsville, IL; Exeter Public Library, Exeter, NH; Falmouth Public Library, Falmouth, ME; Gorham Public Library, Gorham, ME; Huntingdon College Library, Montgomery, AL; Kennebunk Free Library, Kennebunk, ME; Lee-Whedon Memorial Library, Medina, NY; Liverpool Public Library, Liverpool, NY; Lucius Beebe Library, Wakefield, MA; Lynn Public Library, Lynn, MA; Mackinac Island Public Library, Mackinac Island, MI; Manhattan Public Library, Manhattan, KS; Nevins Memorial Library, Methuen, MA; Normal Public Library, Normal, IL; North Conway Public Library, North Conway, NH; Norway Public Library, Norway, ME; Patten Library, Bath, ME; Perry Public Library, Perry, NY; Portland Public Library, Portland, ME; Puyallup Public Library, Puyallup, WA; Richmond Memorial Library, Batavia, NY; Rockland Public Library, Rockland, ME; Romeo District Library, Washington, MI; Scarborough Public Library, Scarborough, ME; South Portland Public Library, South Portland, ME; South Windsor Public Library, South Windsor, CT; Tuftonborough Free Library, Center Tuftonborough, NH; Vose Library, Union, ME; Warren Memorial Library, Westbrook, ME; Warren-Trumbull Library, Warren, OH; Waterford Public Library, Waterford, NY; Wells Public Library, Wells, ME; Wetumpka Public Library, Wetumpka, AL; Wood County District Library, Bowling Green, OH; and the Argyle Free Library, Argyle, NY.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks, as ever, to everyone at St. Martin’s Press, at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and at the Hugo-Vidal house. I couldn’t do it without you—
literally.
Thanks to the friends and family who hosted me in my travels; Jamie and Robin Agnew, John and Lois Fleming, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Dan and Barbara Scheeler, Neil and Tammy Lynn, Calvetta Spencer Inman, Mark and Laura Hubbard, David Lovett and Meg Ruley, Gordon and Rebecca Scruton, James and Mary Ellen Harris, and especially Rachael Burns Hunsinger, who turned her home into a writer’s retreat so this book might get finished.
Thanks to those who gave me information, inspiration, and edification: The Reverend Mary L. Allen, Dr. Michael Brennan, Roxanne Eflin, David Garza, Timothy LaMar, Albert A. Melton, Dr. Parker Roberts, Lieutenant Colonel L. R. Smith (USA Ret.) and the Very Reverend Benjamin Shambaugh.
Finally, thanks to singer/songwriter Bill Deasy, whose CD Good Day No Rain was the perfect soundtrack to Russ and Clare’s story. (He even looks like Russ Van Alstyne!) Go to BillDeasy.com and give it a listen.
My Shepherd will supply my need,
Jehovah is his Name;
In pastures fresh he makes me feed
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake his ways,
And leads me, for his mercy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death,
Thy presence is my stay;
One word of thy supporting breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thy oil anoints my head.
The sure provision of my God
Attend me all my days;
Oh, may thy house be mine abode
And all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger or a guest,
But like a child at home.
—Isaac Watts (1674–1748) paraphrase of Psalm 23, The Hymnal, 1982, The Church Pension Fund
Contents
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Ordinary Time
The Season After Epiphany
Lent
Eastertide
Pentecost
Trinity Sunday, The Last Day of Pentecost
The Season After Pentecost—Ordinary Time
The Feast of St. Alban
Ordinary Time
The Transfiguration of our Lord
All Saints Day
Advent
Christmas
Epiphany
ORDINARY TIME
July
When she saw the glint of the revolver barrel through the broken glass in the window, Hadley Knox thought, I’m going to die for sixteen bucks an hour. Sixteen bucks an hour, medical, and dental. She dove behind her squad car as the thing went off, a monstrous thunderclap that rolled on and on across green-gold fields of hay. The bullet smacked into the maple tree she had parked under with a meaty thud, showering her in wet, raw splinters.
She could smell the stink of her own fear, a mixture of sweat trapped beneath her uniform and the bitter edge of cordite floating across the farmhouse yard.
The man shooting at her turned away from the porch-shaded window and yelled something to someone screaming inside. Hadley wrenched the cruiser door open, banging the edge into the tree. She grabbed for the mic. “Dispatch! Harlene? This bastard’s shooting at me!” Some part of her knew that wasn’t the right way to report an officer under fire, but she didn’t care. If she lived to walk away from this, she was turning in her badge and her gun and going to work at the Dairy Queen.
The radio crackled. “Hadley? Is your eighty still the Christie place?”
She could barely hear the dispatcher over the shouting and swearing from the farmhouse. She thought she made out two masculine voices. “Yes,” she yelled, getting a squeal of feedback from the mic. She tried again, forcing herself to speak in something like a normal tone. “He’s got a .357 Magnum.” She had recognized the sidearm. Hot damn. “There may be more than one of them. Men, I mean. Not guns. Although there may be more guns.” She could hear herself, close to hysteria. “For God’s sake, send help!”
There was a pause. The hell with this, she thought. The hell with it. I’ve got two kids at home who need me. As if invoking Hudson and Genny cleared her head, she suddenly realized the highest-pitched shrieking wasn’t coming from a woman. Oh, my God. Oh, shit. She squeezed the mic again. “Dispatch, it’s not just the sister and the caseworker. The kids are in there, too.”
This time, Harlene’s reply was instant. “We’ve got cars on the way and the state sharpshooter team is scrambling. See if you can keep him talking until backup gets there.”
Hadley stared at the mic. “Keep him talking? About what? Jesus H. Christ, I’m not a negotiator! I haven’t even finished the Police Basic course yet!”
“You talked to angry guys in prison, didn’t you? Think of something. Dispatch out.”
Talk to angry cons? Hell, yeah. The difference was, they were behind bars, weaponless, powerless, while she walked around free, armed with baton and taser. Cons didn’t shoot at you from a house full of hostages.
The kids were screeching, a woman sobbing, the man swearing. Think of something. Think of something. Hadley slithered out of the squad car and crouched behind the open door. She raised herself up until she could see out the window. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey! You!”
The end of the .357 Magnum swung out of the farmhouse window, knocking a few more shards of glass onto the front porch. Goddamn, that thing looked as big as a cannon. She inhaled. The July sun beat down on the dirt drive, throwing up waves of heat. It was like breathing in an oven. “How ’bout you let me take those kids off your hands?”
“How ’bout you come up here and—” He launched into a graphic description of what he wanted her to do for him and what he was going to do to her. She hoped to God the children didn’t understand.
“Let the kids go and we can talk about it,” she shouted. “You want money? You want a ride outa here?”
“I want what’s mine!” the shadowy figure with the gun yelled. “It’s got nothing to do with you, bitch. Leave me alone and nobody will get hurt!” Something from the interior of the house caught his attention. He swiveled around. Yelled something she couldn’t make out. Then the gun went off again.
Hadley was up and moving without thinking, running toward the house, her Glock 9 mm awkward and slippery in her hand. If she had any plan at all, it was to get past the end of the porch to the corner of the house, where he couldn’t see her without opening a window and leaning out. He turned back toward her. She could see the outlines of his face now, his eyes glittering in the dimness of the front room. He brought up the .357. She heard the breath sawing in and out of her chest, the howling of women and children, the susurration of tires on dirt and gravel, and she knew she wasn’t going to make the shelter of the house in time.
Oh God oh God oh God oh God—she heard the shot, higher and keener than the last two, and dove toward the hewn stone foundation, rolling hard into its cool dampness. The blow stunned her, numbed her, and she beat against herself with one hand while trying to raise her gun to a defensive position with the other, all the while wondering, Where is it? Where am I hit?
Then her head steadied and she looked back across the dooryard. A big red pickup straddled the drive—defensively sideways, not head-on like her cruiser. Russ Van Alstyne, the Millers Kill chief of police, had his arms braced on the hood of the truck, his Glock .40 tight in a two-handed grip, pointing at the porch. The gun, she realized, that she had just heard discharging.
“You okay, Knox?” Van Alstyne didn’t take his eyes off the window.
“Yeah.” She struggled to sit up. “I mean, yes, sir.”
“Stay right there. Don’t move.” She glanced up. Some four or five feet above her, a closed window reflected the maple facing it. Hadl
ey squeezed against the edge of the house, drawing her knees in close, doing her best to disappear.
“You shoot one more time and I swear I’ll cap one of ’em here,” the man screamed. “I’ll blow one of these bitches’ heads off!”
The chief raised one hand, showing it was empty, and carefully placed his sidearm on the hood of the truck with the other. Hadley heard the crunch of more tires. Another squad car pulled in, flanking the chief’s. The door popped open on the far side. She caught the glint of bright red hair and then a bristle brush of gray. Kevin Flynn and Deputy Chief MacAuley. MacAuley and the chief had a short and inaudible conversation.
“What’s going on?” the gunman demanded.
The chief had a way of making his voice big without yelling. “My deputy here says the state SWAT team is on the way. They’re not interested in talking to you. But I am.”
“Screw you!” the man yelled. His voice, so near, made Hadley’s skin crawl.
“C’mon, man, talk to me.” The chief sounded like he was about to buy the shooter a beer. “Whaddaya gonna do, shoot one of them? Shoot one of us? They’ll send you up to Clinton, life with no chance of parole. For what? Is one of those bitches worth the rest of your life?”
Hadley felt the shock of the chief’s words sizzle up her spine. Was this the same guy who said “Excuse me” when he accidentally swore within her earshot?
“C’mon,” the chief went on. “You put your gun down, I put my gun down, we’ll call it drunk and disorderly. You’ll get thirty days on the county, watching cable TV and sitting in air-conditioned comfort.”
“I don’t want no trouble,” the man yelled. “Me and my brothers just want what’s ours. You hear?” his voice shifted, as if he had turned away from the window and shouted to the people inside. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, girlie! You been holding out on me?”
In the drive, Flynn and MacAuley had taken up positions ranged to either side of the chief. Van Alstyne pointed at Hadley, then toward the back of the house, then at his eyes. See what’s around in back. She nodded. She rolled belly down on the ground and crawled knees-and-elbows toward the rear of the house. It reminded her of the funny salamander-style crawling Hudson had used when he was a baby, except he hadn’t been saddled with a bulky belt and an increasingly heavy gun.
