A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Chapter Eight

  “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 must have cost more than his first car. “Whatever happened to running in baggy shorts and T-shirts?” he asked Kevin.

  The juniormost 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 ’sixty-six, 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 winter-time. 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.”

  A skinny teenager in a volunteer T-shirt paused while hurrying past them. “Hey, if you’re racing today, better get over to the pen,” he said to Clare. “They’re starting now.”

  “Gotta go,” she said, looking even more relieved. “Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg!” Flynn said.

  Clare and Russ both looked at him. “Kevin—” Russ began.

  Clare cut him off. “Thank you, Officer Flynn,” she said. “See you at the finish line.” She loped off to join the throng of runners crowded into a rectangular starting area marked off by snapping Tyvek ribbon.

  Russ reached beneath his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had missed the bullet on that one, for sure. “Kevin, I’m going to take a turn around the park and—” The shout of the spectators cut him off as the starting official in front whirled and lowered her flag and the runners surged forward, sprinting out of the park entrance and onto Mill Street. He leaned back into the cruiser and keyed the mike. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”

  “Fifteen fifty-seven, I hear you.”

  “The runners have left the park. Remind the guys on the intersections that we’re supposed to get an all clear from one of the race coordinators before letting traffic through again. I don’t want to have any stragglers run over.”

  “Roger that, fifteen fifty-seven. I’ll get right on it.”

  He hung up. “Kevin, I’m going to go show the flag. You stay with the cruiser.” He figured as long as the three hiker chicks were hanging around, it would take a major civil emergency to get the young officer to leave his present post, but it didn’t hurt to reiterate things where Kevin was concerned.

  Russ strolled along the perimeter of the park, seeing and being seen, greeting people he knew by name, his eyes constantly scanning for the off note that would mean trouble. A bushy-bearded man who had been celebrating the Fourth a little too hard. A couple whose argument rose and then fell away as he walked by. A pair of bony-shouldered girls who carefully avoided meeting his gaze. Overall, though, it was an easygoing group. Real trouble would come later, after the runners had left and the bands moved in, after the darkness had fallen and the bottles came out from hiding, after the families packed up sleepy children and the remaining party hearties went looking for more fun. As much as he loved a sunny Fourth, he was thankful for the cool breeze and heavy clouds. The threatening skies would ensure that the crowd at the fireworks tonight would be smaller than usual. If they were rained out, he might even be able to pull a few officers and let them go home.

  He checked his watch as he neared the bunting-draped platform. It had to be getting close to time for the first runners to make it back. When he had been in his prime—he didn’t want to think how long ago that was—he could complete a ten-kilometer run in well under forty-five minutes. In army boots, too, none of this fancy pumped-up, triple-cushioned, shock-absorbing stuff they loaded onto sneakers these days. Of course, running in army boots probably explained the terrible shape his knees were in now.

  “Chief! Over here!” His head swiveled in the direction of the voice. It was Mayor Jim Cameron, waving to him from the platform.

  “What’s up?”

  “I want you to meet some people. Come on up here.” Russ mounted the steps at one end of the platform while Jim Cameron went on. “Russ Van Alstyne here is the finest chief of police we’ve ever had. He came to us with over a quarter century’s experience as a military policeman. We were lucky he wanted to come back home after he got tired of wandering the world. Russ, this is Bill Ingraham, who’s developing the new resort, and this is John Opperman, Bill’s partner.”

  You mean his business partner, Russ thought, remembering what Stephen Obrowski had said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Opperman, Mr. Ingraham.” The man in the polo shirt and khakis, who looked as if he had stepped out of a men’s magazine, turned out to be Opperman. Ingraham, surprisingly, was dressed like one more ordinary Fourth of July spectator, wearing a ratty plaid shirt that his wife would never have let out of the house. Except, of course, Ingraham didn’t have a wife. Russ squeezed the man’s hand a little harder.

  “Call me Bill,” Ingraham said, reclaiming his hand. “How long have you been with the Millers Kill PD?”

  “Five years now. My wife and I moved back here when I retired from the army.” Dropping mention of Linda into a conversation was automatic for him when he was meeting a woman. Just one of those married-guy things. Now he was doing it with a glorified construction worker. Why? To make sure it was clear up front that he was straight? Damn it, he didn’t need to prove anything. It was obvious to anyone that he wasn’t gay. He realized belatedly that Opperman had asked about his wife.

  “Hmm? No, she’s not here. I’m on duty all day today, so Linda went to visit some friends.” Of course, Ingraham didn’t come across as gay, either. Neither did Emil Dvorak, now that he thought about it. He shook himself and forced his attention back to the conversation. Might as well do his bit for the town. “I’m sure Mayor Cameron has already said this, but thanks for sponsoring the race today. It’s nice to have it back.”

  “It’s good business to be a good neighbor,” Opperman said, sounding like a man who had read too many business-advice books and taken them to heart.

  “Right,” Russ said. “Neither of you interested in running, though, I see.”

  “John wanted to, but I persuaded him to stick around and help me show you folks the human face behind BWI today.” Ingraham grinned at Opperman. Russ thought the bean counter wasn’t the best candidate to show the human face of anything. He exuded all the warmth of a wet mackerel. Ingraham went on: “John is Mr. Fitness in our organization. He plays pretend army in the woods in the summer, leads a touch-football team in the fall, heads up the basketball league all winter, and—what do you do in the spring, John?”

  “Competitive rowing. Six-man shell.”

  “There you go. It tires me out just thinking about it. Now me, I agree with Robert Benchley. Whenever I feel the urge to exercise, I lie down until it passes. How ’bout you, Chief? Cops have to stay pretty fit, don’t they?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. At my last checkup, my doctor said, ‘Congratulations, Chief, you have the body of a forty-eight-year-old.’ I said, ‘But I am forty-eight years old.’ ‘Well, there you are,’ she said.”

  Ingraham and the mayor laughed. “Seriously,” he continued, “there’s not as much call for foot pursuit as you’d think from watching TV shows. And fortunately, the criminals around here tend to be in worse shape than I am.”

  “The crime-rate statistics I studied before we bid for the Landry property indicated very little other than small-scale property crimes and domestic violence,” Opperman said. “One of the attractions for tourists is that this area is safe.”

  “That’s true,” Russ said. “And I aim to keep it that way.”

  Ingraham turned to his partner. “You do know the police are investigating a serious assault that took place Wednesday last, don’t you? The victim had actually been at the inn where I’m staying right before he was attacked.”

  Mayor Jim Cameron leaped in, a reassuring look pasted on his face. “But that’s very, very rare. And the doctor who was attacked was local. I don’t think we’ve ever had any incidents involving tourists, have we, Chief?” He went on before Russ could respond. “I think it’s the influence of our superlative setting. Surrounded by magnificent mountains, pristine lakes, and fish-filled rivers, who can fail to feel happier and more relaxed?”

  Plenty of folks, Russ thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Ingraham laughed. “You don’t have to sell me, Jim. If I didn’t believe this place would draw in visitors, I wouldn’t have picked it for the new resort.”

  “It is
a site with a lot of visual appeal,” Opperman said. “I’ve flown in several potential investors, and I always swing through the mountains and over the surrounding countryside on those trips. Everyone comments about the extraordinary setting.”

  “So, you’re definitely going ahead with the construction?” the mayor said.

  “Well, like I said at the meeting, we will as long as we don’t have any trouble from the DEP.”

  “Good,” Cameron said. He looked as though he was about to say more, but instead, he closed his mouth and nodded.

  Russ thought maybe a change of conversation would be in order. “You said you fly, Mr. Opperman?”

  “We hire pilots as necessary, but I’m licensed for both our two-engine prop plane and the company helicopter.”

  “What type of helicopter?” Russ asked.

  “Why?” Ingraham said. “You like to fly, Chief? John could take you up sometime. No problem.”

  “No, but thanks. I’ve got a…friend who used to fly, that’s all.”

  The noise from the spectators in the park had surrounded them with a constant hum. Now Russ could hear yells and cheers. “They must be coming in,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on how the roads are clearing. Nice meeting you, gentlemen.”

  The coed hikers must have headed for greener pastures at some point, because Kevin Flynn was moping about the squad car, looking like a dog left too long outside a store. “Everything okay?” Flynn asked, raising his voice to be heard above the cheers of the crowd around the finish line. Runners were pounding through makeshifts chutes, drenched with sweat despite the cold weather, as a large digital clock displayed their times in tenths of a second.

  “No problems yet,” Russ said. He slid into the car, closed the door, and rolled up the window so he could hear Harlene over the noise outside. Flynn hopped in the other door. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”

  “Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.”

  “The runners are coming in. Make sure those intersections are getting opened up as soon as possible.”