"Sister?" She helped the nun lean forward until the coughing fit stopped.
"Sorry," Sister Lucia gasped.
Clare stood. "No, no, I'm sorry. I've overtaxed you."
The nurse nodded. "It may be time for another treatment."
Sister Lucia grasped Clare's arm. "Tell him," she said, her voice a rattle in her throat, "justice is important. Rights and jobs and working conditions are important. But the bottom line is, without life, none of those matter." She looked up at Clare, her face fierce in its weakness, like a martyr's. "If there's some connection, anything…" She left the implication unsaid. "Tell him."
V
Clare was on her way home from the rehab center when her phone rang. She turned down her Jason Mraz CD and glanced at the number: Russ. For a second, she considered letting her voice mail pick it up. She had to talk to him, she was clear on that, but in fairness's sake she felt she had to let Janet know what she was going to do first.
She flipped it open. "Hey," she said.
"Hey. It's me. Where are you?"
Huh. That was to the point. "On my way back from the Rehabilitation Center at the Glens Falls Hospital. I was visiting Lucia Pirone. You remember her."
"The nun from the crash, yeah. Look, can you meet me at the county courthouse? You know where that is?"
"Certainly. Why? What's going on?"
He made a disapproving noise. "Amy Nguyen of the DA's office wants to talk to us."
"Us? Together?"
"The Christie brothers are up for bail, and apparently their lawyer wants to start the horse trading right now. Can you get over there?"
"Yeah. Where?"
"Just ask for Amy when you check in. Thanks. 'Bye."
He hung up before she had a chance to say anything else. Maybe he was in a tearing hurry. Maybe they were back to not talking. That's what she missed the most: talking. Serious, silly, bone-deep, flippant, all their words and thoughts like gifts to each other, the only gifts they, with their hobbled hearts, could give. She turned the CD player back up. Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me. Oh, yeah. Always time for that.
The Washington County Courthouse was in a low, modern brick building that could have passed for a bank center or a modest corporate headquarters. Its lines were softened by ornamental crab apples in full flower and row upon row of daffodils and paperwhites. She paused a moment on the walkway from the parking lot, breathing in the scent of apple and thick May grass rising over the tinny smell of cars baking in the sunshine. She wondered if the small slices of spring soothed or taunted the prisoners who went in and out of here.
At the security station, she asked for Amy Nguyen and was pointed toward a meeting room that was, when Clare opened the door to a "Come in!", scarcely bigger than a broom closet. A petite Asian woman about Clare's age stood behind a table stacked with manila folders and Redweld document cases.
"Amy Nguyen?"
The woman looked up from the open file she had been reading. On someone less harried-looking, her expression would have been a smile. "You must be the Reverend Fergusson." She held out a hand. Only the faintest trace of an accent indicated English had not been her first language.
"No one else seems to want the job," Clare agreed, shaking Nguyen's hand. That earned her an actual grin.
"Same here. Take a seat."
Clare pulled out one of the molded plastic chairs shoved beneath the table. "What's up? Chief Van Alstyne said you wanted to talk to me about the Christies."
"Let's wait until Russ gets here so we can all-" Amy broke off as the door opened, almost banging into Clare, and Russ sidled into the room, taking up any remaining free space.
"Sorry if I'm late," he said. He glanced at Clare. "Reverend Fergusson." Looked at Nguyen. "Amy. It's been awhile."
She reached over the table to shake his hand. "It has been. I was so, so sorry to hear about your wife. I can't imagine what a terrible loss it must be for you."
"Thank you," he said stiffly. "It's been-yes. Thank you." At Nguyen's gesture, he attempted to wedge himself into one of the chairs. He did not look at Clare.
"Okay, here's the situation." Nguyen laid her hand on the file she had been reading. "The Christies' attorney is holding up the bail application because she wants us to drop all charges against her clients."
"What?" Russ sounded outraged. "The hell she does! If I hadn't gotten there when I did-"
Nguyen held up one hand. "In exchange," she stressed, "they will drop their suit against you and the Millers Kill Police Department for assault and battery."
Russ rocked back, threatening to tip the flimsy chair.
"Yes," Clare said. "I'm willing to drop all charges. Go ahead."
"No!" Russ turned toward her. "That bastard could have killed you!" He scowled at the ADA. "Neil and Donald Christie broke into her church and tried to beat the crap out of her. Look at her! Either one of 'em is twice as big as she is."
Nguyen picked up a piece of paper. "According to the Christies, they went into an open unlocked church seeking an acquaintance. When they tried to find him, Reverend Fergusson"-she looked over the top of the paper at Clare-"assaulted them with a large wooden staff."
"The processional cross," Clare said, realizing the moment she said it that only the worst sort of pedant would correct someone accusing her of attacking them.
"They claim Ms. Fergusson struck Donald unconscious, broke Donald's nose, and battered both of them with the-ah, cross." She picked up five or six papers clipped together. "Their attorney helpfully included the records from their admission at Washington County Hospital, which backs up this account of their injuries." She almost smiled at Clare. "If I'm ever in a dark alley someplace, I hope you're with me, Reverend." She turned to Russ. "Donald Christie then goes on to attest that before he had a chance to comply with your demand that he assume a prone position pursuant to arrest, you punched him several times in the face." She rattled the hospital records. "Also borne out by the medical evidence."
"Look," Russ began.
Nguyen shook her head. "I don't want to hear it. If their attorney files this, our office will have a responsibility to investigate. Don't tell me anything." She dropped the papers and braced her arms on the table. "I read your report. And the Reverend Fergusson's statement. Believe me, I get the picture of what really went down. But this is going to be a bear to prosecute, Russ. The trespassing will never stick, they have good traction with the self-defense, and if we go ahead with resisting arrest, their lawyer's going to make damn sure the jury knows about their pending lawsuit against you. Which, I will point out, is going to cost the town a hell of a lot of money, even if you successfully defend yourself against judgment. Maybe-maybe-I can get a win on threatening, for a whopping five-hundred-dollar fine."