A Fountain Filled With Blood

The speculation, the whole idea, gave her a sour feeling in her stomach. “Puppets playing puppets,” she said. “And over them all, one puppet master.” She shuddered. “God, it’s vile. And she turned to him in the end. Like an abused woman running back to the man who beats her.”

“Where else did she have to go? Maybe she thought he could protect her. After all, there was no warrant out for his arrest.”

Russ was still holding Clare by the arms. “And now?” she asked.

He leaned forward until his forehead was touching hers. “And now nothing.” His voice was flat. “This is all just you and me talking. I can’t think of a shred of evidence to back up anything we’ve said. And even if we could prove he knew Dessaint, what’s he guilty of? Giving away someone’s phone number?”

She broke away from his grip. “No! That’s wrong.” She walked away, as if movement could bring about a different result. She wrapped her arms around herself. “He can’t play with people’s lives and then take his toys home, the winner. He can’t. It’s not…right.”

“I do law enforcement, not good works. That’s your field. Isn’t ultimate justice supposed to rest with God anyway?”

“Stop it! Don’t say it like that. Like it’s a bad joke on us.”

He moved toward her, the grass swishing around his legs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s wrong.”

“I know it is.”

They were silent for a moment. Bob thumped into her legs and she bent down to scratch between his shoulders. “I don’t believe that God allows bad things to happen, that He can choose thumbs-up or thumbs-down for us.” She straightened and looked at Russ. “But sometimes it’s very hard to resist asking Him, ‘Why are you doing this?’ ”

His hands moved as if he wanted to hug her, but he stopped himself. “Come on. Let’s take the dogs as far as the cow fence before we go back.”

They walked through the fading light, the long grass rustling around them. Over the mountains, the sky was the color of bruised flesh. The Berns coursed ahead, black-and-white flashes amid the grayed gold and darkening green. The fence, rusty barbed wire and weathered posts, stopped them. They stood side by side, looking at the mountains and the sky. They did not touch.

He took his glasses off and polished them on his shirtfront. “Remember when you were getting me out of the helicopter? You told me to hold on tight?” He replaced his glasses and looked back to the high horizon. “I’m still holding on.” He glanced down at his hand. “I don’t know how to let go.”

“Holding on…” She bit her lip. Cleared her throat. “Doesn’t do you much good when the person you’re holding is falling, too.”

Gal bumped the side of her knee. She reached down to scratch her head. Bob barked once, twice. She turned and looked back along the way they had walked. The house seemed a long way off from this perspective.

“We better head back,” he said. “There’s a storm coming.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know there is.”

Acknowledgments

I would like to first thank my husband, Ross Hugo-Vidal, without whom, literally, this book could not have been written. Thanks to my thoughtful readers, Roxanne Eflin, Mary Weyer, and my mother, Lois Fleming. Thanks to my perspicacious editor, Ruth Cavin, and my inestimable agent, Jimmy Vines. Thanks to everyone who helped me with the details, especially my father, John Fleming, who let me fly his helicopter; Rachael Burns Hunsinger, for information on PCBs in the Hudson River Valley; Lt. Col. Les Smith (USA, Ret.), who taught me about falling; and the staff and clergy of St. Luke’s Cathedral, Portland, Maine, who continue to inspire me.

Finally, thanks to all the readers I met through e-mail or signings or at book group conference calls. This book exists because of you.

A FOUNTAIN FILLED WITH BLOOD

Copyright © 2003 by Julia Spencer-Fleming.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002032502

ISBN: 978-0-312-99543-0

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.