In the Bleak Midwinter

Too bad the inward voice that gently and relentlessly urged her on could find her, even under a Baltimore quilt. And make itself heard even over jazz from the ’68 Monmartre session. Heck, God was probably playing at that session. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Kristen? It’s Clare Fergusson. You left a message for me?”

“Yeah. I was hoping . . . I have to go see my mom today to start sorting things out. I was wondering . . . would you come with me?”

“Are you sure you don’t want some privacy with your mother? I mean, if you want to do more than go over the funeral plans with her. You two have some very intense issues to discuss.”

Kristen groaned over the phone. “Yeah. The thing is, I think if you were there I’d, you know, be more likely to get to the tough stuff. I know it’s asking a lot . . .”

“No, I’d be more than happy to come if I can be helpful, Kristen. It’s not asking a lot. I’m glad you thought to call me.”

There was a pause. “About last night? I’m sorry I got all weird on you. I was just . . . it was all too much, you know?”

“I know. Believe me, I understand.” Clare pulled her oversized agenda toward her. “I’ve got a counseling session at three, but I’m free until then. Give me the directions to your mother’s apartment, and I’ll meet you there.” She scribbled the address on a piece of scrap paper and wrote KRISTEN: NOON in the agenda. “Okay. See you in about half an hour.”

Someone had hung a pair of plastic wreaths on the front doors of 162 South Street. The peeling apartment facades must have been workingman’s flats a hundred years ago. Utilitarian and cheap back then, and not improved by the last thirty years of unemployment and neglect. Still, Clare could see evidence of the coming Christmas as she fishtailed slowly down the street. Crayon-colored reindeer taped in windows, strings of fairy lights wrapped around the posts of one battered and sagging porch.

She parked as close to the curb as she could. No sign of Kristen’s black Civic. She kept her engine running to ward off the cold and turned up the Top Forty station on her radio. Everything was calm in the afternoon’s watery sunlight, but she couldn’t be far from where Russ had answered a domestic disturbance call last Friday when she had gone on patrol with him.

A girl with a toddler balanced on her hip trudged past Clare, ignoring the unusual sports car, intent on keeping her cigarette ash from blowing into the child’s face. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and Clare wondered if it was choice or a lack of them that kept her out of school. This was the sort of young woman and child her proposed program could help, if she could only get the vestry behind her. She blew out her breath in frustration.

A slamming door jerked her back to the here and now. Kristen had arrived. Clare killed the engine and slid out of her car. Kristen walked around the MG, her eyes wide, nodding. “This is your car?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Way cool. I didn’t think priests had enough money for this sort of thing.”

Clare laughed. “I don’t. I’ve had it for seven years and if something big goes, I’ll be in deep pockets. I really ought to sell it and get something more practical.”

“Must be lousy in the snow.” Kristen opened the passenger-side door and peered in at the leather interior. “But, oh, man, it sure has some style.”

Clare caressed the curve of the hood. “It sure does, doesn’t it?”

Kristen clicked the lock and slammed the door shut. She pointed to Clare’s side. “You oughtta lock up around here.” She glanced up at the third story windows while Clare complied.

“Are you ready for this, Kristen?” Clare asked, picking her way over the sidewalk snowbank to keep her boots dry.

“No. I feel kinda sick to my stomach, to tell you the truth. But I’m here, so hey. Let’s do it.”

Mrs. McWhorter buzzed them up without comment. The stairs were steep and poorly lit, and Clare wondered if this place could pass a municipal safety inspection. Did Millers Kill have safety inspectors?

The door to 4A swung open at Kristen’s knock.

“Hello, Ma,” she said, her voice forcibly calm. Clare tried to school her shock at the size of the woman who embraced the ramrod-stiff girl.

Brenda McWhorter pulled away from her surviving daughter, her expression a mixture of hurt and frustration. “Aw, Kristen, don’t be like that.” Her eyes flickered to where Clare stood in the hall. “Aw, now don’t tell me you’ve brought a cop with you. Krissie . . .”

“She’s not a cop, Ma, she’s a priest. She’s the one who was there the night they found Katie’s—the night they found Katie. She’s been helping me out. This is Reverend Clare Fergusson.”