“Crews? Super Cop? Nothing outside the usual gossip really. I mean everyone knows of him. He's young, but also an old-fashioned law and order type, which doesn't bother me one bit.”
“I get it, but then I don't, you know? You'd think they'd have put me with someone like Singh or Moretti. Why Crews?”
“Well, if you were with Singh, you'd get stuck doing all his paperwork for him, on account of his hatred of anything that requires ink. Moretti would drive you nuts with his constant talk about renovating that fucking house of his. Take your pick,” said Danny.
“I guess you're right.”
“I usually am. Well, I was wrong once. Thought I'd made a mistake, but hadn't,” said Danny. He laughed at his own joke and told Grant to lighten up.
“Look, Grant, Owen Crews is Laird's boy. He just got made up to training officer, so Laird obviously sees something in him. Like I said, being on the next chief 's good side isn't going to hurt you. I'll bet Crews, despite his past lapses in judgment, makes sergeant within two years. Shit, McRae, don't make the same mistake I did and wind up a beat cop for thirty years. If Laird takes a shine to you and Owen Crews is going places 'cause he's in Laird's back pocket, well, get in there, ride in his slipstream, and take whatever opportunity comes your way.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You're right.”
“I usually am. Well, I was wrong once . . .”
Grant joined in and they finished the sentence in unison. And then Danny Cook got up to get two more beers out of the cooler.
Grant drove home just before the dinner hour. Danny had asked him to stay. He was heating up the barbecue and defrosting some chicken to feed “his girls” when they arrived home. Grant had declined. He didn't want to get in the way, interfere with family plans. Besides, it was tough being around Danny Cook's grandchildren. They were ten years old, happy, bright, well-behaved kids. And while that should've made them a pleasure to be around, for Grant McRae it was difficult to sit and watch them laugh and run and do all that kids do.
Rachel's Toyota was in the driveway when he arrived home. He backed his Jeep up beside her car and noticed a portion of the hedge that he'd missed when he'd trimmed it earlier that week. He opened up the main door of the garage and grabbed some pruning shears, wandered over and clipped back the fine branches. He always hated coming into the house after not seeing Rachel for a few hours. It always seemed to him that she observed him very carefully for the first few minutes. Conversation was wooden, and no matter how hard they both tried, it came out sounding rehearsed. He ran out of hedge to trim, so he unwound a few feet of garden hose, attached the sprinkler, and turned on the water.
The house smelled of onion and spice when he finally walked in. A preacher was whining on the radio, and he could see Rachel moving about in the kitchen.
“Hey, Rachel, I'm home.”
She came into the front hallway with an apron on, mixing spoon in one hand.
“I got your note,” she said. “How's Danny doing?”
“He's swell. You know him, happy-go-lucky. It's really working out well with his daughter and her kids.”
“I've got a meatloaf in the oven. I have to eat soon because I have to be at the church at seven-thirty,” she said.
“Sounds good. I'll join you.”
She'd turned and walked back toward the kitchen, but stopped and said, “You'll join me?”
He felt his shoulders tense up. He had to be careful these days, watch how he said things.
“I meant that I'll join you for some meatloaf. After that I'll go for a run, come home, grab a shower, and listen to some tunes downstairs. I should make it an early night.”
She crouched to pull the oven door open.
“Oh, I thought for a minute that Danny had convinced you to come to a Bible study.”
Grant walked through the kitchen and started up the stairs. He was going to ignore Rachel's comment at first, but stopped halfway up and said, “Why would Danny Cook convince me to go to church? He's not religious.”
She was at the bottom of the staircase with oven mitts still on her hands.
“No, but he's spiritual. His father was a deacon in the church over in Belfast,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“I don't know, maybe a month ago. He'd called here for you when you were out. We chatted, and he told me all about his father.”
Grant wanted to just carry on, head upstairs, and throw on his gym shorts and a tank top. He was back into work within twenty-four hours and didn't want an argument with Rachel. On the other hand, he wondered if she'd been Bible-thumping to Danny on the phone.
“I hope you didn't preach to him or anything,” said Grant.
“No, no. I forget how it came up. Anyway, supper's ready, did you want Caesar or tossed salad?
“He called on our line?”
She sighed loudly, said, “Yes, Grant. He had tried calling your line downstairs but you weren't there. He just thought maybe he could catch you if he called on the main line.”
It started as soon as he picked up his knife and fork. He knew she was doing it even as he slid the knife through a wedge of moist meatloaf. He took a bite and looked at her; he could feel pangs of anger that seemed to surge as he chewed his dinner. She always watched him like she was expecting something to happen, a sudden conversion, Grant McRae on his knees speaking in tongues, calling out to Jesus. It was almost better back when they argued about her new beliefs and her evangelizing to anyone who would listen for ten seconds. Now there was just silence on the whole topic of God and Christianity: an unspoken agreement had been quietly enacted and allowed for a peaceful co-existence. But every now and then Rachel would test the waters. And it usually started with the thoughtful stare. Grant put his fork down.
“Rachel, what is it?”
“Why are you so angry?”
“I'm not angry. You're staring at me like there's another one of your sermons on the way.”
She sipped her tea again and shook her head.
“No. I was wondering if you'd listened to that CD I gave you, though.”
“I haven't had time, besides, I don't think I'd like them.”
“How do you know that? They're great musicians, and the lead singer's voice, it's like he really feels every word he sings.”
Grant got up and took a soda from the fridge. He opened it and remained standing.
“I don't want to listen to religion when I listen to music,” he said.
She got up as well, tilted her shoulder to squeeze by him.
“Suit yourself, Grant. I bought it to cheer you up, that's all.” Grant watched her back down the driveway and drive off to the church. He looked out at the street where he'd lived for eight years, noted how the skinny saplings at the end of each front lawn had started to fill out, actually looked like trees. It was the type of place where nothing much ever happened. He'd sensed that when they'd bought here, a safe and tidy little subdivision where you could raise your child and socialize with like-minded people. All bets were off now. He felt like a stranger. Felt people's eyes upon him when he cut the grass or washed the car. He watched Rachel signal at the top of the street and turn right to catch the main road. She'd go and talk and read the Bible and do whatever it was they did until ten o'clock or so. And while he was slightly envious about the apparent peace she'd found, he didn't want to get involved. It seemed cult-like to him. The way they took you in and embraced you without knowing a thing about you. Within weeks they'd