A Fountain Filled With Blood

Up they went. Up and up, angling slightly to the east as Clare sang “Devil with a Blue Dress” into the headphones and the rotors thundered to her rhythm. “Wearing her perfume, Chanel Number Five, got to be the—what the heck?”

He sat up again and looked out the window, immediately wishing he hadn’t. They were up. Way up. As high as an airplane. The mountaintops stretched out beneath them in rough and rounded shades of dark green and smoky blue. Clare had gone silent. In his experience, it was never good when a pilot went silent.

“What is it?”

She didn’t answer him. He craned around. She was leaning over, working a control he couldn’t see. “Clare, what is it?”

“The radio,” she said. “I can’t use it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that instead of leaving the last station on, whoever was flying this spun the dial. It’s on dead air now. And that’s not all.” She reached over her head. “Look at this.” She had a small black plastic cylinder in her hand. He took it from her. “That’s the control knob. It came off in my hand. Take a look.”

Inside the cylinder was a small hollow tube, meant to fasten tightly over whatever metal stud actually connected to the radio’s workings. The tube was splintered apart, as if someone had jammed a screwdriver or awl into it.

He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. “What’s this mean? Are we in trouble? Do we go back down?”

“It means I can’t rely on the local air-control stations to lead me to Albany. I’ll have to do it by sight. I’m going to bring her up a little higher so I can get my bearings. The visibility is lousy today because of the humidity.”

She sounded very calm and authoritative, which didn’t reassure him one bit. Pilots always sounded the most calm when they were in the deepest trouble. The chopper whined, but now the engine had a shrill note that made his back teeth ache.

“What’s that? Is the engine supposed to sound like that?”

“It’s having to work a little harder, that’s all. The humid air means there’s not as much lift under the rotors as there would be if it were cool and dry.”

“How far up are we going?”

“Four thousand feet.”

“Four thousand feet! I thought choppers only went five hundred, a thousand feet high.”

She actually laughed. “We’re only going to be about two thousand feet above the ground. Where we started from was almost two thousand feet above sea level to begin with. Okay, help me out here. I’m not very familiar with the geography around here. I see two fairly big rivers, a handful of smaller tributaries, a medium-sized lake. I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

As before, he braced his hands against the metal frame and looked out the window. He tried to pretend he was safely stowed away in a small airplane, but the laborious chop-chop-chop of the rotors made it impossible. “Which way are we pointing?”

“North.”

“Okay.” He took a breath. “The lake must be Lake Luzerne. The river to the west is the Sacandaga. It heads west, to the Great Sacandaga Lake. The river to the east has to be the Hudson.”

“Are you sure? It looks kind of small.”

“It is small this far north. It broadens out past West Point.”

“And Albany is on the Hudson?”

He leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes. “It was the last time I was there.”

“Okay. I’ve got my bearing on the compass. I’m going to take us back down to five hundred feet and head east.”

He shoved the useless control knob into his pocket and tried to ignore the queasy sensation their descent was giving him. Clare was still silent. He wished she would start singing again. He looked at Waxman, whose face was damp and pale beneath his trendy goatee, and thought how young he was. And that even at that, the men he had seen dying on helicopter floors had been younger still. Boys. Waxman would have been an old man in ’Nam.

The chopper bumped abruptly, emitting a sound like a leaky cough. He lurched in his seat belt, reaching down to keep the unconscious geologist from sliding. Waxman’s backpack rolled across the floor. Clare was talking to herself under her breath, something about airflow.

Waxman’s backpack. Which had been lying several feet away from the man. He had been fighting with Peggy before he fell. How had his backpack gotten down there? He unbuckled his seat belt and started toward where the backpack rested against the orange cargo webbing.

That was when he heard the sound, the spluttering, coughing, choking sound that sounded like some great beast dying.

“What is it?” he asked. “Clare?”

“Fuel,” she said, her voice tight. “Get into your seat and strap down.”

He could feel the question howling behind his clenched teeth: What do you mean? Didn’t you check it? He kept it there. Of course she’d checked it. She was snapping off words like items on a list in a subaudible whisper. He heard a brief roar, then another choke.

“Strap yourself in and get into the crash position!”