A Fountain Filled With Blood (8 page)

“One,” he said, counting off on his fingers, “there wasn’t any pattern of attacks until after MacPherson was beaten up. So there wasn’t anything for him to know. Two, we’ve already briefed the
Post-Star
on Emil’s attack. Our take was that an area doctor was rammed and mugged while he was out driving in his convertible. We asked for anyone with information on a red vehicle with new damage to the body to call us.”

“That makes it sound like he was robbed. If people read the words
doctor
and
convertible,
ninety-nine percent of them are going to assume he was rich.”

“Fine. I don’t mind scaring rich people. They already take precautions against attack.” He ticked off a third finger. “Three, like I said when we were at the inn, if word gets out that someone might be targeting gay-owned operations, it’s likely to cost the owners business. Even if there are good-hearted neighbors around to keep watch, customers are going to stay away. It’s my job to protect Millers Kill, and Fort Henry and Cossayuharie. Some businesses make half their yearly income between Memorial and Labor Day. I’m not going to hurt them if I can help it.”

She leaned against the smooth, cool wall. “Now you sound like the mayor in
Jaws
. Don’t yell ‘shark,’ ’cause it’ll hurt business.”

“If I thought I could catch who’s responsible for these attacks by closing down the town, I would. But singling out certain businesses or individuals and telling them they may be next won’t do that.”

“But you might prevent another person from being hurt!”

“Look, the take on MacPherson’s attack is going to be that a small-business owner, closing up all alone, was assaulted. There’s going to be a statement from me in the
Post-Star
urging all businesses to take extra precautions at closing time. The population around here doubles in the summer, and God knows what sort of lowlifes come floating in for the carny rides in Lake George and the fake rodeos in Lake Luzerne.”

“Is that who you think is behind this? Some rednecks from out of town, up here for a little fresh mountain air and blood sports?”

He sighed. “It could be. The timing certainly suggests so.” He pushed his hand through his hair, causing it to fall unevenly across his forehead. “If it is, it should be easier to spot the red vehicle. You can’t just garage your car and drive another one when you’re on vacation.”

“Russ, I can understand your concern about singling out businesses as potential trouble spots. And I can understand you not wanting Millers Kill to be associated with this sort of vicious behavior. But if you don’t let it be known that you believe gays are being targeted, you’re keeping individuals from being able to protect themselves.”

“I’m keeping them from being singled out. This is a small town, Clare. How many homosexuals do you think are out of the closet here? Every guy with a high voice and every woman with cropped hair and no makeup will suddenly be a source of speculation. Or worse, a potential target for any homophobe reading the paper who thinks, That’s a good idea! I’m gonna get me a faggot!” He leaned against the wall. “Let them stay safely hidden.”

“That’s bull.”

He straightened up and looked at her, raising his eyebrows.
“What?”

“You heard me. Bull. It’s that sort of attitude that allows homophobia to flourish. ‘They’re different. They’re not like us. We don’t know any. Don’t ask, don’t tell.’” She pushed away from the wall and pulled her hair back in both hands, twisting it. “I saw the same sort of crap in the army. Force people to hide who and what they are and then act surprised that you’ve created a culture where it’s okay to make fag jokes and harass people who act ‘funny.’ How do you convince Joe Six-Pack that being gay’s not a fate worse than death when it is a fate worse than death if you’re found out?”

“Clare, I’m trying to solve a pair of assault cases here. I’m sorry, but eradicating prejudice and stupidity are beyond the scope of my job. As is reforming the U.S. Army.”

She exhaled. “I’m not asking you to do that. Sometimes I get a little…global when a problem gets under my skin.” She glanced up at him. “I still think you’re making a mistake.”

“I respect your opinion. But this is a real short chain of command here. I’m the cop and you’re the priest, and what I say goes. Period. I want you to promise me that you aren’t going to run to the
Press-Star
or preach your next sermon on the possible connection between Emil and MacPherson.”

She frowned and crossed her arms.

“Promise me—”

“All right. I promise. But I swear, if there’s one more incident, I’m going to organize a Take Back the Night march and start it right at the front steps of the police station.”

“Don’t worry. If there’s one more incident, the press is going to be all over this like a hog on slop, and then everybody will be weighing in with their opinion.” He pushed away from the wall and began strolling toward the elevator doors at the end of the surgery unit. Clare fell into step beside him. “However,” he added “there’s not going to be another incident if I can help it. Every man on the force, full- or part-time, is on duty this weekend.”

“Is that because of these assaults, or because it’s the Fourth?”

“Everyone’s usually on duty for at least part of the Fourth. The road race tomorrow will suck up a lot of manpower. Then there are parties and barbecues…. I can guarantee you that before the fireworks go off, we’ll have handled a dozen domestic fights, three car accidents, at least one kid doing something incredibly stupid with a bottle rocket, and somebody who’s gotten drunk and fallen into the kill.” He stopped at the elevators. “You coming or staying?”

“I’m staying with the family until Todd’s out of surgery.”

He punched the down button. “Every one of my men is gonna be briefed on this and on the alert for anything suspicious. Not to mention looking for a red vehicle with impact damage.”

The elevator chimed. The door opened and Russ entered, waving a half salute at Clare.

“Speaking of prejudice,” she said.

“Huh?” He caught the edge of the door before it closed.

“How come there aren’t any women on the police force?”

The last thing she saw of him were his eyes, rolling back in his head.

“Great day for a race, huh, Chief? Gosh, I love the Fourth of July.”

Russ looked over at Kevin Flynn, who was standing with his hands on his hips beside their cruiser, eyeing the crowd of runners and spectators filling the park. Then he looked up, where heavy-bellied clouds dragged over the mountains and sailed low under a silvery gray sky. He reached through the window to retrieve his windbreaker. “At least we won’t have to worry about sunstroke,” he said.

A cluster of woman runners walked by him, evidently not worried about the day’s unseasonably cool temperatures. They were wearing what looked like neon-colored body paint and shoes that cost more than his first car. “Whatever happened to running in baggy shorts and T-shirts?” he asked Kevin.

The junior most officer was grinning at a trio of giggling girls. Russ pegged them as coeds who had been hiking on the Appalachian Trail, from their chunky boots and serious backpacks. “Huh?” he said without turning away from the girls.

“Never mind. Just wondering when Lycra became the national fabric.” On the other hand, he thought, his attention riveted by one woman bending way over to retie her laces, there was something to be said for Lycra. He hadn’t seen that much of Linda until after they were married.

The radio crackled inside the cruiser. “Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.” Harlene, their most experienced dispatcher, had volunteered to work this holiday, even though she would have had it off, due to rotation and seniority. He was grateful. No matter how crazy it got, nothing could flap Harlene.

Tearing his eyes away from the scenery, he leaned in and unhooked the mike. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”

“I wanted to let you know Noble’s in position for traffic control by the bridge and Paul is at the intersection of Main and Canal. Kevin’s going to stay with you in Riverside Park, right?”

“That’s right. It looks like they’ll be starting in about fifteen minutes. They’re trying to get the runners in position.”

“How’s it looking?”

Another woman runner paused, frowning, and reached inside her sports bra to redistribute the load. It must have been one of those high-performance sports bras, because it had a lot to contain.

“Everything looks real good here,” he said truthfully. “Hey, you heard the latest weather yet?”

“It’s supposed to hold off raining until tonight,” Harlene said. “I heard from the fire department. They’re assuming the fireworks will go on as planned, nine o’clock or so. Whoops! Lyle’s on the line; I gotta go. Dispatch out.” The radio crackled off.

He replaced the mike. A gust of wind reminded him to shrug on the windbreaker he had been holding. The wind made the banner stretched across the entrance to the park billow like a spinnaker sail. MILLERS KILL THIRD ANNUAL INDEPENDENCE DAY 10K, it read; BWI Development logos were prominently displayed on each side. To call it “annual” was something of an exaggeration, since the first one had taken place five years ago. The event’s organizers—a hard-core group of runners who also got up a trip to the New York Marathon every year—had had difficulties finding sponsors over the years. The last race, two years back, had been sponsored by an Adirondack dot-com company that went belly-up six months later. This year, they had latched onto BWI, which was splashing out a lot on the event: big booths piled with free oranges, bananas, and energy bars, fancy bottled water, T-shirts for volunteers and competitors.

Riverside Park was a broad swath of green undulating along a twisty stretch of the river between two now-abandoned mills. When serious construction had begun in the early nineteenth century, some entrepreneur had snatched up the land in the hopes of developing it at a great profit. Unfortunately for him, he had failed to account for the fact that the water-powered mills of the time needed long, straight riverbanks. The land escheated to the town for failure to pay taxes and had been a park ever since. Russ suspected the mill workers who had once picnicked here would have laughed themselves sick at the sight of their descendants crowding together for a chance to run six miles in a circle to get a T-shirt.

BWI had sent some of their construction workers to build a platform stand near the riverbank. The mayor, a few members of the running club, and a well-polished man in a pressed polo shirt and khakis, whom Russ pegged as Ingraham, were taking up the space now. Later on, it would be a stage for local bands to play on until the nine o’clock fireworks—if the rain held off. Russ looked up at the sky again. The wind pushing the storm clouds forward seemed to bring the mountains themselves closer, their color an intense green-blue, the texture of spreading leaf and spiky pine picked out in a way you never saw when the day was hot and sunny.

Kevin Flynn’s voice broke into Russ’s musing. “Hi, Reverend Fergusson. You running today?”

He looked over the roof of the cruiser. Clare, kitted out in baggy shorts and a ratty gray army T-shirt, was smiling bemusedly at Flynn. “Yes, I am, Officer Flynn. You have a sharp eye.” She grinned at Russ. “You ought to get the chief to make you a detective.”

“Nah,” the oblivious Flynn said. “You have to have more than one year’s experience.”

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Russ said. “It being a Sunday and all.”

“I don’t think my congregation—all thirty of them who turned up for this morning’s Eucharist—will mind. I like to compete once in awhile, especially in the summer. It keeps me from slacking off on those mornings when it feels too hot to run.” She shivered as another cool breeze gusted past them. “Not that that’s a problem today.”

Flynn hitched his belt up, setting his rig jingling. “Say, Reverend, did I see you driving a Shelby Cobra the other day? That’s a way cool car.”

Clare’s face lighted up. “It is, isn’t it? I bought it from a man who collects early muscle cars. It’s a ’66, in great condition. Just needed a new carburetor and a little work on the electrical system.” Her voice had taken on a faint southern drawl. “I always wanted me a Shelby.”

Russ crossed his arms and leaned against the roof of the cruiser. “You should have gotten something heavy, with four-wheel drive. Something that can maneuver in the snow.”

Clare and Flynn looked at him. “I’d rather have something I can maneuver on the road,” Clare said.

“Yeah,” Flynn said. “After all, you can always load some weight in the trunk and put on chains come wintertime. What are the specs?”

“Four hundred fifty-two liters and a V-eight. Let me tell you, that little honey can eat up the road.”

“Oh, man, I bet. I’ve heard they can run at eighty without even opening up the throttle full. That I’d like to see.”

“You’re not suggesting Reverend Fergusson break the state speed limit, are you, Officer Flynn?”

Kevin looked abashed. “Um,” he said.

“Don’t pick on the boy, Russ. He has the right idea.” She gave Kevin a gleaming smile. “Just because the only thing you think of is—”

“Safety.”

She waved a hand in the air, dissipating his word like so much blown smoke. “I am a very safe driver. And you’ve never had me drive you anywhere, so you can’t say otherwise. Can you?”

“I’ve let you drive me crazy,” he said. The second it was out of his mouth, he felt the tips of his ears go red. God! What an asinine thing to say!

Clare’s cheeks pinked. Her throat moved as she swallowed, but she didn’t say anything. His mind raced feverishly for something, anything, to throw out to break the silence, since he was pretty sure the earth wouldn’t conveniently open up and swallow him whole.

“Have you heard from Paul Foubert?” he blurted.

She blinked. “No,” she said. Then her face brightened. “No!” she repeated, relief plain in her voice. “Nope, nope, haven’t heard from him. How ’bout you?”

“Not since Friday. Emil’s serious, but stable. He hasn’t woken up yet, so we haven’t been able to get any information from him.” He felt steadier, although his ears were still burning. “We’re still trying to track down the truck involved. “Nothing yet. But we’ve got three county sheriff ’s departments and the state police looking, so we’ve cast a pretty wide net. I’m hopeful.”