All Mortal Flesh

Russ nodded. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Clare Fergusson.” Clare offered her hand, and the principal took it. “I’m the priest at St. Alban’s.”

Jean A

The principal released Clare and clasped her hands in front of her, the sort of habitual gesture that she once must have used to draw the attention of a roomful of high schoolers. “I’m grateful you could come here instead of making the boy go to the police station. He was quite distraught when he spoke to me. He’s very concerned that his parents not find out.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Russ said. “Who is the boy?”

“Qui

“Meg Tracey’s son?” Russ was genuinely surprised. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. We’ve hired him to plow out our drive a couple times this winter. I can’t think of why he’d be worried about his parents knowing he saw anything. His mother was the one who found-who called in the crime.”

“Let me take you to him, and you can ask him yourself.” Mrs. Rayburn escorted them out of her office. “We’ll be in Mrs. Ovitt’s room,” she said to her secretary, who-Clare looked twice to make sure-had put on a fresh coat of lipstick while they were meeting the principal.

“Suza

Ugh. Clare decided not to correct her. The guidance counselor’s office was bright and cheerful, decorated with the sort of inspirational posters often found in corporate cafeterias. A row of all-in-one desks lined one end of the room, and the other had been converted into a conversational grouping, with an oversized sofa and several squishy chairs. Like her furniture, the fifty-something Mrs. Ovitt had a look of sturdy service about her, as if she could wipe noses, serve snacks, correct misdeeds, and drill multiplication tables simultaneously, without raising her voice or losing her cool.

She shook their hands and murmured hellos and condolences. Clare stepped to one side to get a better look at the boy huddled on the sofa.

He looked like any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old she might have seen hanging out at All TechTronik or the Aviation Mall. Jeans that were easily two sizes too large, a long-sleeved tee emblazoned with a picture of rapper Fifty Cent, and a middling case of acne that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d be a handsome man once he grew into his nose and ears. But the expression on his face was singular-and disturbing. He was staring at Russ, and he was scared.

“Qui

“I know Qui

The boy looked down to where he was linking and knotting his knuckles together. “It was a car,” he said.

“In my driveway?”

The boy nodded, still not looking at Russ.

“When was this?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

Clare glanced at Russ. Was that when…? He shrugged. “What kind of car was it, Qui

“A 1992 Honda Civic. New York State plates. 6779LF.”

“I’m impressed. Most people don’t remember vehicles with that much precision.”

For the first time, the boy looked up at Russ. “It’s kinda a habit. When I started the plowing job, Dad told me I’d better keep track of any cars in any of the driveways I did, in case somebody made a claim for damage later on. He pays half of my insurance, so he’s, like, always thinking about my liability.”

Russ nodded. “What made you notice this car? Were you out there plowing?”

Which would have been odd, Clare thought, since the last significant snow had been well over a week ago.

“Naw, I do all my plowing right after it snows. Nobody wants to wait.”

“So what were you doing out on Peekskill Road?”

Qui

“Qui

The boy looked at Mrs. Ovitt, who had been sitting quietly, near but not too close. She nodded encouragingly. “I was hanging out with a friend.” Russ opened his mouth, but the boy cut him off. “I don’t want to get him involved, okay?” He dropped his head again. “My parents don’t want me hanging around with him.”

The boy’s reluctance, his fear, all fell into place. Clare didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. A woman was dead, and in Qui

“Qui

Qui

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Are you go

“Not if I don’t have to.”

Qui

“Was he in your truck with you?”

The boy nodded.

“Did you notice anyone going in or out of the house when you saw the car?”

He shook his head.

“Can you remember what time it was?”

Qui

“So it was getting dark? How did you see the license plates? Was the outside light on?”

“No. I mean, I guess it was before dark. But at the end of the afternoon. Maybe it was closer to three.”

Russ sat silent for a moment. Then for another. He regarded Qui

Finally, the boy burst out, “Is that it? Is that all?”

“I don’t know,” Russ said. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Qui

“You sure?”

He nodded.

Russ stood up. “Then we’re done. Thank you for coming forward and telling Mrs. Ovitt and Mrs. Rayburn what you saw. I know it was hard for you. I’m grateful.”

The rest of the adults stood when Russ did. Qui

“Qui

“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Ovitt commented. “Once he reconciles himself to the fact he’s a small-town white boy instead of an urban black gangbanger, he’ll be fine.”

“Who’s Aaron MacEntyre?” Russ asked. “I recognize the last name, but there are several MacEntyre families in the area.”

“His parents are Craig and Vicki MacEntyre,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “They have a farm in the valley, off Old Route 100.”

“Has Aaron been in trouble?” Clare blurted the question out before she remembered she was going to keep a low profile. “I mean… why would the Traceys forbid their son to see him?”