A Fountain Filled With Blood (14 page)

“Clare!” he said. Clare and the reporter both jerked their heads in his direction. He propped what he hoped look like a smile on his face and tried again in a less threatening tone of voice. “Reverend Fergusson? I hope I don’t have to remind you that giving out some information could jeopardize this investigation.”

“How?” she asked.

He sucked in air between gritted teeth, but before he could reply, Sheena and the cameraman had pivoted toward him. “Chief Van Alstyne, we’ve heard that tonight’s murder victim and the victims of the two assaults in Millers Kill this past week were all gay men. Can you comment on this?”

“No,” he growled.

“Are the police investigating this as a hate crime? Are you linking it to the other assaults?”

“We pursue any murder to the fullest extent of our resources, whether you label it a hate crime or not. I’m of the opinion every murder is a hate crime, and I’m not going to treat one differently from another because of who the victim was.”

“So tonight’s victim was gay?”

He wanted to strangle Bevin. No, he wanted to strangle Clare. The camera light pinned him like an interrogation lamp.

“I can’t comment on the victim until we’ve notified the next of kin.”

“How about the assault victims?”

“Look, I’m not going to comment on this. I’m not going to out anyone on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Would you advise area residents who might be homosexual to take extra precautions?”

“Whoever did this tonight is on the loose until we bring him in. I’d advise
all
area residents to take extra precautions. Now, I need to wrap things up and make sure Reverend Fergusson gets home.” He smiled at Clare in a way that conveyed she might arrive in several pieces. “So we’ll have to cut this short.”

Sheena slid a finger along her throat in exactly the same line that the garrote had taken when it cut through Ingraham’s neck. The cameraman killed the light. “We know that the dead man is the president of BWI Development,” the reporter said, “and we’ll sit on his identity tonight. But I’ll give you fair warning that we’re going to run it on the five-thirty show tomorrow. This is going to be a big story.”

He waited until Sheena and the gorilla had decamped before taking Clare’s elbow. “You,” he said, his voice barely audible. “In the car. Now.”

“What about the dogs?”

“In the back.” He steered her toward the squad car. “I’m going to sign out with MacAuley and Durkee.” He reached through the window on the driver’s side to unlock the back doors. “Then you and I are going to have a little talk.”

Things were winding down. Dr. Scheeler was gone, the mortuary van was pulling out, and the Channel 6 news team was loading their equipment. Durkee was bent over the electrical cords running from his car to the lamps. All but a few hard-core spectators had drifted away.

“Make sure you clear out the last of those,” he said to Lyle, jerking his thumb at the remaining handful of gawkers. One of the tungsten lights blinked out, and the thicket was suddenly half-dark, heavy with mist and shadows. The pole clattered as Durkee telescoped it down. “I’m taking Reverend Fergusson home.”

“Hey, you’ve had a long day,” Lyle said, folding his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you head on home and let me take care of her? I want to go back to the station anyway, to get my report down.”

“Do you know what she did? She told that reporter it was Ingraham.
And
she told her he was gay.
And
that the other guys were gay. It’s gonna be all over the news that Millers Kill is running rampant with hate crimes. God! I could…” He wasn’t sure
what
he could do.

“Let me handle it, then. Give yourself a chance to calm down.”

“Oh no. I want to tell her exactly how bad she’s screwed us. When I get done, she’s not going to pick up her newspaper at the front door without running it past me first.” He exhaled.

Lyle opened his mouth and then shut it again. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. G’night.” He stalked back to his squad car, got in, buckled up, turned on the ignition, and threw the car into reverse without saying a word. He looked over his shoulder, ignoring the woman in the passenger seat, and discovered two hairy heads blocking his rear view. “Down!” he said. The dogs whined briefly and then lowered themselves, paws pitter-pattering on the cruiser’s vinyl upholstery as they arranged themselves on the backseat. He rolled backward between two trees, turned around, and drove slowly over the grass to the park entrance. He nosed through the gates, looked both ways, then bumped the car over the curb onto Mill Street.

“Well?” Clare said. “Say something!”

“You broke your promise to me.”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did. You stood right in front of me and promised you wouldn’t talk to the press about this.”

“That was when there were only two attacks. For God’s sake, Russ, a man has been murdered! That’s more important than some exercise in spin control.”

He turned on her at that. “Damn it! Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about? Bad press?” He snapped his attention back to the road. “You insult me.” She glanced at him and then looked down. “You think my job is about solving crimes?” he continued. “It isn’t. Solving a crime means I’ve already failed. My job is preventing crimes. And you and Sheena, Queen of the Reporters, have just made that more difficult.”

“By telling the truth?”

“Your version of the truth.”

“Oh, come off it. If you mean to tell me you still don’t think these attacks are connected, I will laugh in your face. I swear I will. It’s time to speak out, Russ. It’s
past
time.”

He swung the cruiser onto Main Street. “Fine! Preach against prejudice. Start a voter initiative to change the state’s constitution. Get up a gay pride parade and march it down Main Street. I don’t care so long as you have a permit. But don’t compromise my investigation and start a panic because you’ve decided the three cases are connected!”

“I don’t need your permission to help people! And I don’t need your permission to speak out against hatefulness! If you had warned the press Saturday that someone was going around beating up gay men, maybe Bill Ingraham wouldn’t have been caught in the bushes with his pants down!”

The light at Main and Church turned red and he slammed on his brakes, throwing them both against their shoulder harnesses. The dogs barked and scrabbled against the seat for purchase. He twisted so he could look at her head-on. Her hazel eyes were glittering in the light from the dashboard and he could see patchy red spots high on her cheeks.

“Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?” His rage, which had been feeding on each exchange like a fire consuming logs, died out. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and compressed her lips. Her eyes shifted away from his. “It is,” he said, a part of him surprised at how much the realization hurt. “You think I’m responsible for Ingraham’s death.”

“No. I said he
might
have acted differently if…if he had been aware…” She sounded strange as she tried to backpedal. It wasn’t like her.

The light turned green, and he faced forward, his eyes fixed on the road. They traveled the length of Church Street in silence. He turned onto Elm and drove up the rectory drive, then put the car into park.

“Russ,” she said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”

He popped the locks and got out. He released the grateful dogs, who tumbled over themselves exiting the back seat.

“Russ…”

He looked at her over the cruiser’s roof, thought about tossing off some line about cops always having critics, then found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to playact with her. He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. Just…never mind.”

Clare stood at the edge of the drive, looking at him, twisting the bottom of her sweatshirt. The dogs were already nosing at the front door, whining to be let in. He got back into the cruiser and started it up.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out. “Russ, please. I’m sorry….”

He waved a hand in acknowledgment as he pulled out of the drive. He could see her face as he drove down the street, a white oval in the darkness. The image stayed with him for a long time.

When Clare opened her front door the next morning to let Bob and Gal out, the air was clear, the grass and leaves were sparkling in the sunlight, and she felt rotten. Guilty. Lower than a worm’s belly, as Grandmother Fergusson would have said. She leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, her hands thrust in the pockets of her seersucker robe, and tried to take some pleasure in the sight of two happy dogs sniffing out every corner of a perfect morning. But all she could envision was Russ’s face, changing from anger to pain as she fumbled and missed her one chance to take back her hurtful words.

Well, she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken a stand against homophobic violence and had raised the red flag against hate crimes. And all it had taken was eviscerating her best friend.

She walked barefoot down the steps and across the lawn to the newspaper box to retrieve Monday’s
Press-Star
. She took the paper back to the porch and sat on the steps, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She didn’t want to deal with murder, protests, arrests, real estate developments, and PCBs. Since when is Russ Van Alstyne my best friend? she wondered. It’s not like we go out bowling together or anything. Still, it rang true. She groaned and beat herself over the head a few times with the newspaper. It didn’t make her feel any better. She dropped it in her lap and bent forward, burying her face in her hands.

“God,” she said, “I believe you brought me here to Millers Kill for a reason. But so far, I mostly seem to be screwing up my own life. Please help me out here. I need to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”

Somewhere beyond the open double doors, the phone rang.

Clare raised her eyebrows and rose from her seat on the porch steps. In her experience, God didn’t respond to prayer with a phone call outlining His thoughts and expectations, but she was willing to keep an open mind. She tossed the newspaper on the sofa and went into the kitchen to pick up the phone.

“Hello, Reverend Fergusson? This is Peggy Landry.”

Clare couldn’t have been more surprised if it
had
been the Almighty. “Ms. Landry,” she said. “Um…how can I help you?”

“We haven’t met, but I believe you know my niece. Diana Berry? She’s getting married July thirty-first.”

The whirl of speculation snapped firmly into place. Diana Berry and her fiancé, Cary—what? Wall? Ward? Wood, that was it. She remembered wondering how anyone could name a child Cary Wood. Diana had been in twice, once in February to reserve the church and once in April with her fiancé in tow for the first of the mandatory three counseling sessions. She had mentioned that her family was from the area.

“Yes, of course. I’ve met Diana and Cary. Although I haven’t seen either of them for quite some time.” In fact, the pair needed to get back in touch with her about the rest of their counseling if they wanted to tie the knot in her church.

“Diana lives in the city”—by this, Clare presumed she meant New York—“and her mother, my sister, lives over in Syracuse, so I’m helping out with organizing on this end. I’ve been running myself ragged lately with business, and I’m really falling behind on this wedding thing. But! Things have happened this weekend, and that’s why I’m calling you.”

Clare thought for a moment that Peggy was referring to Bill Ingraham’s death. She blinked. No. The jaunty tone, the brisk speech—Peggy Landry had no idea that the man who was developing her property had been bloodily murdered the night before. Good Lord. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Should she say something, or just let the woman rattle on?

“We always have a family get together over the Fourth of July, and this year a bunch of people decided to stay on for a few days. I thought, What a perfect time to get all the last wedding details pinned down! So I was wondering if Diana and the florist and I could drop by the church sometime today to work on the floral design.”

“The floral design,” Clare echoed.

“Yes, well, evidently you can’t just order up flowers in vases and have someone set them here and there anymore. Nowadays, the florist wants to design the site, so we need to get her in to take a look.”

Clare weighed her options. Monday was her day off. Also Mr. Hadley’s day off, since the sexton worked all weekend, cleaning up before and after the services. She wouldn’t be able to pass the buck by having him open the church for Landry and company. She would have to be there herself. Talk with Peggy Landry. Find out more about Bill Ingraham.

“Of course, Ms. Landry. I’d be happy to meet you at the church and let you all in. When’s a good time for you?”

They agreed on ten o’clock. Clare decided not to use her two hours lead time to go running—she still felt yesterday’s race in the slight stiffness in her thighs—but instead dressed quickly and put in a call to Robert Corlew’s office. Corlew was a member of St. Alban’s vestry. He was also a prosperous local builder, whose work ran to small developments with names like Olde Mill Town Homes and the occasional strip mall. Clare figured he might have some information on Ingraham and the Landry property, seeing as how he was in the same business. He hadn’t arrived at his office yet, but she left him a message.

She let herself consider her sudden interest in Ingraham’s background while she was scrambling eggs and brewing coffee. After all, if she had been right last night when she cut Russ down, his murder was more or less random, the result of being the wrong man in the wrong place. Her time would be better spent organizing that march Russ had suggested. But as soon as Peggy Landry had identified herself, Clare had felt a powerful impulse to take a closer look at Ingraham. What had Russ said to her last night? “Your version of the truth”?
There’s I’m right and there’s you’re right and there’s what’s right,
her grandmother Fergusson had always said.
You can’t have but one of them. Which one will it be?
The only way she was ever going to be able to face Russ again was if she let go of “I’m right” and went looking for “what’s right.”