The Judas Child Read Online Free

with wire, and through the partial opening, she could see the blue wood of a barricade and the tips of orange cones used to divert traffic from an accident scene.
    “Phil, you can have all the credit for the great bike caper, okay? But now you’ve got two disorderly drunks and a bike to transport. And your witness, Miss Fowler? She doesn’t drive.”
    Phil was staring at his patrol car and working on the logistics of who would fit where. He nodded in defeat.
    Five minutes later, Rouge pulled his car away from the curb. The purple bike was in his backseat, and Miss Fowler sat beside him. She thought he took her criticism quite well, responding with a “Yes, ma’am” at every suggestion for turn signals. She graced him with a rare smile. Rouge was a strange one, and she believed he spent entirely too much time in Dame’s Tavern, but he was fundamentally a good boy.
    Rouge’s car turned left into the station house driveway, following the only patrol car in Makers Village. Once, the town had sported two cruisers, but the second one had disappeared into Green’s Auto Shop last summer and was never seen again. Some had believed the vehicle might be saved; others said no. The mayor had finally settled this debate, claiming the patrol car had gone to heaven to live with Jesus. Miss Fowler suspected that the mayor also drank.
    When they pulled into the police station parking lot, which was actually the library parking lot, it was hard to miss the bright lights of the camera crews and all the vans with major news-show logos printed on their sides. As she stepped out of the car, she also noted four New York State Police vehicles, one long black limousine and two rider-less motorcycles.
    Miss Fowler was first to reach the top of the stairs. She held the door open for Rouge as he carried the bicycle into the station house. The reception area was not much bigger than her own front parlor and crowded with so many people, it was certainly in violation of the fire codes. Before the door had swung shut behind them, a woman’s voice yelled out, “The bike!”
    A portly figure in a shapeless blue dress was walking toward them, a woman of average height and average features, even to the limp mouse-brown hair. She yelled again, “That’s my daughter’s bike!” A photographer blinded Rouge with flashes, and another man with a microphone was bearing down on him.
    What a lot of fuss over a stolen bicycle.
    Or maybe there was more to this, for the yelling woman had clearly been crying, and now she was caressing her child’s purple bicycle. Well, this person was obviously a professional mother. Miss Fowler knew the breed: the soft plump arms and ample bosom could comfort three children at once on a bad day, and the thick waist spoke well for her cooking. The woman’s face was full of mother terror, and there was a siren in her voice, teetering on the screaming pitch of a three-alarm fire.
    Miss Fowler was nodding in general approval of traditional motherhood when another woman stepped forward. This one was slender and smartly tailored, with suspicious highlights in her upswept ash-blond hair. No yelling from this one—only cool composure and élan.
    And doesn’t she seem familiar?
    This blonde had the classic good looks of a television personality, but when she spoke, her voice was laced with acid. “Well, at least someone on the force is awake and earning his salary.” The blond woman turned on the prisoners, looking from one to the other, as though deciding which man she would have boiled alive for her late supper.
    Miss Fowler made a moue of distaste as she recalled this woman’s face from a recent photograph in the Sunday newspaper. The blonde was Marsha Hubble, estranged wife of the reclusive Peter Hubble, whose family had lived in the same house since 1875. Oh, and she was also the lieutenant governor of New York State.
    And now Miss Fowler realized she had overestimated the lady politician’s composure, for Mrs. Hubble’s