"Not happening, Hugh," she told the phone. She erased the message, laughing.

Checking out her order, Mr. Napoli kept peering at her, frowning a bit as he placed the Macallan's and the Harveys and the bottles of Shiraz in their narrow paper bags. It wasn't until she produced her driver's license and checkbook that he smiled at her. "Reverend Fergusson!" He clutched her license with both hands, his eyes shifting from her picture, to her, and back again. "I didn't recognize you, with all these soldier clothes on." He gestured up and down, taking in her desert camo battle dress uniform. "We haven't seen you in here lately! Now I can tell Mrs. Napoli why." He took her check, tching. "The army. Is that any place for a sweet girl like you?"

Clare remembered, too late, that she had also been avoiding appearing in public in uniform. Too many explanations. She smiled flirtatiously. "Now, Mr. Napoli. You've seen my birth date." She slid her license off the counter. "I'm hardly a girl anymore." While he was gallantly defending her right to be juvenalized two months shy of her thirty-seventh birthday, she extricated herself with a promise not to be "a stranger." Bumping out the door with a bagful of booze, she reminded herself to take her civvies with her next time she reported for Guard service, and change before she got in her car to go home.

Russ Van Alstyne was standing beside his big red pickup in the parking lot.

Staring at her.

She swallowed. Hugged her paper sack closer to her chest. Her first thought was, Was he always that tall? Her second thought was, He's lost weight. He was in his semi off-duty uniform, tan MKPD blouse tucked into a pair of jeans that had seen better days, an official windbreaker balancing his salt-stained hunting boots.

Then she realized where he was. Her eyes widened. His did, too.

"What are you doing at a liquor store?" she asked.

"What are you doing in uniform?" he said simultaneously.

They both paused. His dismay-at getting caught?-was plain on his face. "Are you drinking again?" she said. Her clashing emotions-concern, not wanting to be concerned-made her voice harsher than she intended.

He blinked. Frowned. "What?"

She waved a hand at Napoli's plate glass windows, advertising specials on Dewar's, Bombay gin, and all Australian wines. "What are you doing at the liquor store?" She took a step closer, not wanting to shame him by shouting his problem to any shoppers within earshot. "Please don't tell me you've started drinking again."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them. When he spoke, his voice was tight with control. "I am not drinking again. I'm here to get Napoli 's latest bad check report."

Her mouth formed a silent O.

"Now, would you mind telling me what the hell you're doing in BDUs?"

She shifted one shoulder so he could read her New York State Guard patch. His hand came up and touched his collar, where, like her, insignia told the world his rank. "Where's your chaplain's cross?"

She mirrored his movement, touching her captain's bars. "I'm not in the chaplaincy. I'm in the 142nd Aviation Battalion. Combat support."

"You're what?" He crossed to her in three sharp strides. "You're in combat support? Are you insane? There's a goddamn war on! Who the hell volunteers for front-line duty with a war on?"

She looked up at him. "I don't know. You, maybe?"

He hissed through his teeth. The secret he might have taken to his grave, if he hadn't shared it with her. Suddenly, she felt ashamed, as if she had used a cannon to counter a flyswatter. "Don't worry," she said. "I haven't told. I wouldn't ever tell." That, contrary to what everyone else believed, Russ Van Alstyne had not been drafted to serve in the Vietnam War. He had enlisted-volunteered.

"Christ, I know that. You think I worry about that?" He shook his head. "At least I had an excuse. I was eighteen and dumb and desperate to get out of town. What possible reason could you have?"

She shifted the paper sack on her hip. "The bishop and I had several lengthy conversations after… after…" She was searching for a word to pretty up what she had done. She shouldn't do that. She wouldn't do that. "After I killed Aaron MacEntyre."

"That was self-defense, not killing. You saved our lives in that barn. His punk-ass friend's, too."

"I resigned my cure, but, strangely enough, he didn't accept it."

"You what?"

She ignored his interruption. "Ultimately, the bishop didn't think what I had… done… was the problem. He thought it was a symptom. Of me not knowing if I was a priest who used to be an army officer, or an army officer who happened to be a priest. He suggested"-she looked up at him, her mouth twisting-"he strongly suggested the National Guard as a solution." She shrugged. "So I joined up. At the end of January." She paused. "You hadn't heard?"

"No, I hadn't heard. Your name hasn't come up…" His blue eyes unfocused. She could see the lightbulb come on. "No one talks about you anymore." She wasn't sure if he knew he was speaking aloud. "No one ever talks about you to me."

Another brilliant piece of deduction by the head of the Millers Kill Police Department. Idiot. She dug her fingers into the paper sack to keep from smacking the surprise off his face. A Pontiac pulled in the lot, parking beside her Subaru. Automatically, they each stepped back. Away from each other.

His gaze sharpened again. "Your bishop pushed you into recommissioning. Knowing you might well be deployed."

"I wasn't pushed. I had my own-"

His snort blew away her rationalization. "Because you took out Aaron MacEntyre."

"Because I have a record of-"

"He was going to gut-shoot me. He was ready to do it."

Clare compressed her lips into a thin line. She didn't want to stroll down that particular memory lane. Then she realized where he was going. "No," she said.

"Because of me."

"No." She was louder this time. The older gentleman getting out of the Pontiac paused and looked at them nervously. Was the chief of police about to haul some belligerent soldier away?

"We are not having this conversation." She turned toward her car. Russ caught at her sleeve, and at that moment, her phone began playing "Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee" in her pants pocket. Proof, if ever she needed it, that there was a merciful God.

"Yes, we are," he said.

She fished out the phone and opened it. "Hello?" She twisted, more firmly this time, breaking his hold on her.

"Clare? This is Sister Lucia. Lucia Pirone." The sister's voice was thready. Clare backed toward her Subaru, keeping her eyes on Russ. He took a step toward her. Then his phone started ringing.

"Lucia? What is it? I'm sorry, I can hardly hear you." She bumped up against the car and set her sack on the hood. Russ took another step toward her. She pointed at his jacket pocket. Your phone, she mouthed.

"The hell with my phone," he said.

"There's been an accident," Sister Lucia said. "My van-"

"An accident?" Clare jabbed her finger at Russ again, then made a face. "Are you okay?"

He opened his jacket and retrieved his phone. Checked the caller ID. Frowned. He retreated to his own vehicle to answer it.

"No, actually, I don't think I am." Clare realized the weakness in the nun's voice had less to do with signal strength than with injury.

"Lucia. Have you called nine-one-one?"

"Yes." There was a noise, as if the older woman were gasping for breath. "There are two officers here. An ambulance is coming."

"How can I help?"

"I was-" Her voice faded away.

"Lucia? Lucia? Where are you?"

"Sorry. I'm off Route 137 in Cossayuharie. The van-a tire blew. We went off the road."

"We?"

"Some of the men are hurt," the nun said. "They're afraid. They're running off into the woods-please, Clare, please-"