“Roger that.”
“Any news?”
“It’s been pretty quiet so far. There was a fight out to Lockland’s Whispering Pines campground. Somebody pulled out their RV without disconnecting the water and sanitation lines, and Lockland decked the damnfool.”
Kevin snickered. Russ shot him a look. “They get it all sorted out?” Russ asked.
“Yeah, Lyle convinced the RV guy not to press assault charges and Lockland not to press vandalism charges. Lyle said he hadn’t smelled a stink like that since his brother’s cesspool overflowed.”
“Remind me not to complain about sweaty runners. Anything else?”
“We got a call from Bob Mongue over to the state troopers’ headquarters. They’ve got a possible on your red Chevy.”
Russ sat up straighter. “Yeah? Where?”
“The Burgoyne campground on Route Four, south of Whitehall. Big ’ninety-seven pickup with Pennsylvania plates. Good-sized crunch in the right rear.”
“They run the plates?”
“They’re doing it now. Sergeant Mongue’ll call back when they’ve talked with the driver and checked his ID.”
“Raise me as soon as you know anything, Harlene.”
“Will do. I’ve got one more thing for you.”
“Okay.”
“Mrs. Bain called. Thought she saw a man poking around her house, trying to get in.”
“Oh for—” He clenched the microphone and took a deep breath. “How long has it been since her son came for a visit?”
“ ’Bout three months now.”
“Okay. She’s definitely due for a prowler. There’s a copy of the last incident report in the files. Get that out and change the date, will you? That way, it’ll be ready to go when she asks for it.”
“Roger that. Dispatch out.”
“Damn,” he said, hanging up the mike. “If Bob Mongue collars those sons of bitches while I’m chasing down one of Mrs. Bain’s imaginary prowlers, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He shook his head. “This is what a quarter century of police work gets you, Kevin. Keep it in mind.”
Of course, Mrs. Bain was very apologetic when they failed to flush out a burglar. The hardest part on one of her calls was getting away—she kept pressing lemonade and homemade brownies on them. Russ extricated himself and Flynn by promising to have the young officer bring over the incident report in person. They escaped into the squad car, clutching a paper bag of brownies.
“You’re pretty good at that, Chief,” Flynn said. “How do—”
The radio crackled. “Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.”
“Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven. Come in.”
“Multiple reports of a disturbance at Riverside Park. One caller described it as a riot.”
Russ stared at the microphone in his hand. “A riot? Over what? Who took second place in the forty-and-over division?”
“Another caller described it as a rowdy demonstration. You better get over there. I’ve sent Noble and Mark, but you’re closer.”
A demonstration. The brownie in his stomach suddenly felt like a small lead brick. “We’re rolling, Dispatch. Keep me informed.”
“Will do. Dispatch out.”
Kevin Flynn was almost beside himself with excitement. “A riot? Are we going to get out the riot gear?”
“No, we’re not going to start lobbing gas grenades into a bunch of runners on the Fourth of July.” He switched on the lights and siren, dreading what he suspected he might see when they got there. BWI…a large open space…plenty of people around…He knew he should have put the elements together before now.
They couldn’t reach the park entrance in the cruiser. Despite blipping the siren to get people out of the way, it was too crowded. He parked and waded through the press of bodies, hauling people out of his way if they didn’t move fast enough, Kevin bobbing along in his wake.
“Two! Four! Six! Eight! We don’t want precipitate!”
All around him, spectators, picnickers, and runners were talking loudly and excitedly, pushing forward for a better view.
“A! B! C! D! Keep your lousy PCB!”
He could see the placards bouncing above the protesters’ heads, seven or eight of them: BAN PCBs and NO DREDGING AND WILL WORK FOR CANCER.”
“In! Out! Up! Down! Don’t contaminate our town!”
Sounded like the goddamned cheers were written by a preschool teacher. There was a scuffle on the platform, which was so jammed with people now that he couldn’t make out what was going on yet. He spotted Noble Entwistle forcing his way through the crowd from the riverbank side of the park.
“Brown! Blue! Gray! Green! Keep our soil and water clean!”
The sounds of a loud argument came from the platform; then the banner with its prominently displayed BWI logos shivered, and both weighted poles holding it toppled over with a loud clang. Aldermen leaped from the back of the structure to escape the tangle of fabric. In the ensuing confusion, the demonstration’s spokesperson thrust herself to the front edge of the small stage, bullhorn pointed toward the spectators. “Parents of Millers Kill! Do you want to risk your children’s health to make a development company in Baltimore rich?”
Russ fought to keep from closing his eyes in denial. There it was, his worst fear, in the flesh.
The remaining people on the platform stood helpless, unwilling to tackle the protester, and who could blame them? A seventy-four-year-old woman’s bones could break mighty easily.
He was within shouting distance now. “Mom!” he bellowed. “Get down from there!”
Chapter Nine
“Good Lord,” Clare said to no one in particular. Behind her, someone shoved forward, causing her to stumble and splash herself and the man in front of her with half the contents of her water bottle. The wet man turned and snarled at her. “I’m so sorry,” Clare said. She plucked her sodden T-shirt away from her goose bump–prickled flesh. She cooled down fast after a run, and all she had wanted to do was collect her official time, get back to her car, and pull on the sweats she had stashed there. Now she was stuck in a gridlock of excited humanity, pinned between the placard-waving protestors in front of her and what seemed like half the population of Millers Kill behind.
“Mom, get down from there!” she heard Russ order.
Mrs. Van Alstyne lowered her megaphone. “You’ll have to come and get me,” she said. The crowd nearby roared with laughter, and Clare could see Russ’s cheeks and ears turn pink.
“I know some of you think we’re doomed to be exposed to PCBs because we’re near Hudson Falls,” Mrs. Van Alstyne said through her megaphone. “I know some of you think the jobs that’ll come out of the new spa are worth a few extra chemicals in the groundwater.”
The eager watchers behind Clare pushed her steadily forward toward the center knot of protestors. Around her, faces were amused, incredulous, angry. She could see one…two…three video cameras in the crowd, pointed at Margy Van Alstyne, the chief of police, the demonstrators. This thing was going to be better documented than a Rose Garden speech. A young woman slipped between spectators, thrust one flyer from a ream of photocopied papers into Clare’s hand, and disappeared, working her way through the crowd. In the press of bodies around her, Clare had to hold the paper close to her face. STOP BWI DEVELOPMENT NOW! the heading screamed. On one side, it was a broadside against BWI; on the other, a gruesome list of the effects of PCB exposure. She tuned back in to Margy Van Alstyne’s speech.
“PCBs are known to cause cancer! PCBs are known to increase aggression!” Clare could see Russ’s head above the crowd as he made his way to the platform.
“Baltimore-based BWI stands to make millions from this development! Meanwhile, we get minimum-wage service-industry jobs and enough PCBs in the water to cause cancer in thirty percent of our population!”
“Any job’s better’n no job!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“They’re promising to pay eight dollars an hour,” a woman yelled.
<
br /> Bill Ingraham was moving purposefully toward Mrs. Van Alstyne. Russ vaulted onto the platform’s edge and waved him off.
“Look around you at your friends and neighbors!” Margy Van Alstyne shouted. “One out of every four people you see could be dead from cancer within a decade. How many dollars an hour is that worth? No! Get your hands off me!”
Russ had wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and lifted her bodily off the platform. She waved her megaphone out of his reach. “I have a right to speak! I have First Amendment rights!”
Russ grunted from the effort of pulling her away from the platform’s edge. “No permit,” he managed to gasp out. His mother flailed and twisted, and he staggered back, sending the mayor and several top runners scrambling to get out of his way. Boos erupted from the crowd.
“Let her speak!”
“What’re you afraid of?”
Russ put his mother down. “No permit for public demonstration,” he said more firmly. “Disturbing the peace, resisting an officer, and possible battery. Cuff her, Officer Flynn.”
“Me?” said Flynn.
Another protestor, the redheaded nurse Clare had seen at the town meeting, launched herself over the edge of the platform. Mrs. Van Alstyne tossed her the megaphone. “Ask yourself why the police and the mayor don’t want us to speak to you,” she shouted.
“Damn it, Laura, get down off there. Don’t make me write you up again.” Russ turned to drag her away from the impromptu podium. She danced out of reach.
“The government of this town is too blinded by the thought of the tax income from this development to look after your health,” the nurse shouted. “But you can demand the DEP stop this spa! You can demand new testing of the Landry site! You can demand—oof!”
Russ picked her up with considerably less effort than it had taken to move his mother. Boos mixed with cheers. The central knot of protestors took up the chant again, reinforced by other voices chiming in. To Clare’s right, someone called out, “Development means jobs! Development means jobs!” and the cry instantly spread into a ragged countercall. “Damn Commies,” one beefy man in front of her said to another. “They think government control of property is so great, I say let’s ship ’em off to North Korea.”
Officer Entwhistle was trying to remove the protestors, or the people harassing them. It was impossible to tell. Despite her soggy clothes and her clammy skin, and despite her grandmother’s voice warning her, This isn’t any of your business, miss, Clare couldn’t keep herself from trying to get closer. She edged sideways between individuals, couples, clumps of people, buffeted by excited voices.
“Folks? Folks? I’m Bill Ingraham, and I am BWI Development.” Someone had rescued the microphone stand from beneath the fallen banner and set it up in front of Ingraham. “I said this at Wednesday night’s town meeting and I’ll say it again: If you folks don’t want our resort in your community, we’re outta here.” He didn’t look like the genial, controlled businessman he had been at the meeting. He looked like a construction boss who had just found out his crew was threatening to unionize. “Personally, and professionally, I think connecting your PCB problem with our development site is bad science and worse business.”
“PCBs were stored on that site twenty-five years ago!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“Yeah, and then the storage canisters were removed by the government and the site was cleaned up. Look, folks, the feds and the state have both given the place the thumbs-up. Either you trust the government or you don’t. But if you don’t, why the hell would you want to call them in again?”
“He’s right! Listen to the man!” another person yelled.
“I take pride in my resorts. I build ’em right and I try to be as environmentally sensitive as possible.” The protestors jeered. “If you don’t want us here, call in the DEP and we’re gone. But don’t send a bunch of scientifically illiterate witches after me!” He thrust the microphone into the stand with enough force to set it rocking, stalked to the rear of the platform, and leaped down, disappearing from view.
The babble of the crowd was deafening. Mayor Jim Cameron visibly wavered between snatching the microphone or running after Ingraham. The urge to apologize to the developer must have won out, because he let himself down over the rear of the platform and also vanished.
Russ, who must have unloaded his mother on Officer Flynn, strode back to the front of the platform. He didn’t bother with a microphone, simply cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You people are demonstrating without a permit. You must disperse now. Anyone who fails to disperse peaceably will be arrested.” The central knot of protestors promptly sat down and started singing “We Shall Overcome.” Clare could see Russ’s lips moving, but it didn’t look like he was saying anything fit for public consumption.
She heard the siren of another police car. Time to get out of here. She had to keep her head down and use her elbows aggressively to wedge her way between bodies. Very few people seemed inclined to leave before the show was over.
“Certainly the most interesting thing to happen on the Fourth of July since that streaker in ’seventy-nine, don’t you—”
“No proof that any of the stuff is coming from the development site.”
“—with husbands supporting them and too much time on their—”
“Thank God somebody has enough guts to stand up to the Board of—”
“You said the same thing when they did the Million Mom March, and you were wrong then, too.”
“He’s not gonna be a problem after tonight, is he?”
Those words, accompanied by a little laugh, raised the hairs on the back of Clare’s neck. She stopped dead, turning to see who had spoken. A pair of parents bore down on her, arms full of squirming children, and she was pushed out of the way. By the time they passed, the crowd had shifted around her again. She had no idea whose gravelly, gloating voice had made a simple sentence sound like a threat. That group of teenage boys? They looked too young. That man with his wife? Too old. She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. She was losing it. The attacks, and now this public pandemonium, had tipped her over the edge. She continued working her way to the back of the crowd, holding fast to the thought of her car, a warm sweatshirt, and a peaceful ride back to her quiet rectory. Small-town rural parish indeed. She should have asked the bishop for combat pay before coming to Millers Kill.
When Clare got home, the first thing she did was shower until her hot water ran out. She had never been so cold on a Fourth of July in her life. Then she wrapped herself tightly in a full-length terry-cloth robe identical to a monk’s habit, complete with cowl. It had been a gift from her brother Brian, who over the years had also given her a clock in the shape of an Apache helicopter, a pair of army tap-dancing boots, and a recruiting poster featuring Michelangelo’s God and the words I WANT YOU. She had just eased a half pound of linguine into a pot of boiling water in preparation for a carb fest when her phone rang.
“Clare? Russ. I need you to do me a favor.”
His voice was strangely hushed. “Russ? Where are you?”
“At the Washington County Jail.”
“What are you doing at the jail?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how inane they sounded. “I mean, I thought you’d be back on patrol.”
“It’s my mother,” he said, his voice as grim as she’d ever heard it. “I’m trying to get her out.”
She decided not to mention that he had been the one to put his mom there in the first place. “Is there some sort of delay with the bail bondsman? Does she have to wait for a hearing or something?”
“I put up her damned bond myself. She won’t accept it! She says she’s a damned prisoner of conscience and she’s not leaving until she gets to make a public appearance before a judge!” He was practically hissing at this point. “’Scuse my French,” he added.
“Why are you whispering?” she said, involuntarily whispering, as well.
“
I’m calling you from the booking room. There are about a dozen cops and guards here, and every one of ’em knows I arrested my own mother for disorderly conduct. You know what she kept calling me in front of the bondsman?” He dropped his voice further. “ ‘Sweetie!’ I’m never gonna live this down.”
She bit the inside of her lip. When she knew she could speak without a trace of laughter in her voice, she said, “What do you need me to do?”
“Get the dogs.”
“The dogs?”
“Those two beasts we left with Mom. She put them inside the house. Her hearing isn’t until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and she may not be processed and out until noon. They can’t stay inside the whole time.” He exhaled. “I’d go up there and let them out myself, but I’m on duty until midnight and things are already picking up. I need to get out of here and back on patrol.”
She looked at her linguine, the tomatoes and garlic cloves lined up on her cutting board, the wineglass waiting to be filled. “You know I’m glad to help, but…getting into your mom’s house…isn’t this something a family member ought to do? Your sister? Your wife?”
“Janice took the kids to her in-laws for the weekend, and my brother-in-law is alone with forty cows. He wouldn’t leave them unattended if God himself got on the phone and asked him over. And I can’t ask Linda.” The tone of his voice did not invite further questions.
“What about…” Her mind cast around for reasons why this was a bad idea. “But they can’t run around here in my yard. They’re big dogs; they need their exercise.”
“Well, then, take them to the park and let them run off-leash.”
“You can do that in the park?”
“Hell, yeah. The park’s very animal-friendly. There used to be two big water troughs there for dogs and horses, until they were torn out in the eighties.”
The only other objections she could think of were even more inane than the last one.
“Clare,” he said. His voice went even lower. “Please.”
A Fountain Filled With Blood Page 8