A Fountain Filled With Blood

Jujube guy punched Todd in the stomach, and he lunched forward, retching. The man behind him let go of his neck, clenching his hair in a fist and twisting one arm behind his back. Todd cried out. His wrist was forced higher, wrenching every joint in his arm. Todd bowed forward, straining on tiptoe to loosen the grip that was forcing his muscles and tendons to their limits, but the fist in his hair held him tightly against his invisible tormentor as he vibrated between pain and pain. “I got money in my cash register,” he said, his voice reedy and desperate. “Please, just take it. Take whatever you want and go. Please.” The last word cracked.

Todd felt a hard tug as his hair was yanked upward once, twice. “You really got me there with some of those kicks, pussy,” the unseen man behind him said. “Now I gotta hurt you bad.”

“Hey, man, let’s get the money. It’s no fancy electronic safe system or nothing. He’s probably got a wad of cash in there.”

“Shut up,” the man behind Todd said. “You know the deal. Nothin’ gets taken.”

“How’s he gonna know?”

“No. Now put the goddamn magazine down and help me with this fag.”

The last thing Todd thought, in the moment before all his thoughts were wiped away, was how businesslike they sounded. Like in Pulp Fiction. Nothing personal. Nothing personal. Nothing—

Chapter Seven

In her dream, Clare was floating in an inner tube on an emerald green pond. It was kind of like her special place in the woods near her parents’ home, except the water was bathtub-warm and there was much more open sky above her, the light dazzling through her closed eyelids. The tube spun slowly, her hair and feet trailing through the water, and then a man surfaced at her side and she saw with delight that it was Russ Van Alstyne. He floated close, smiling, and then his hands were running along her body, warm and liquid as the water. She noticed that she was naked. How wonderful. A car alarm went off on the distant shore, but she ignored it, watching his face and his hands, flowing from relaxation into a sweet tension. The car alarm was louder, annoying her. She worried that it might be her car. She fought to focus on the tingling sensations in her body, but the shrill was too…damn…loud. She woke with a sideways lurch across her bed, the phone ringing on her nightstand, sunshine splashing over her tangled sheets.

“Good Lord,” she said. She could feel her cheeks coloring. She took a deep breath and snagged the phone. “Hello?”

“Reverend Fergusson?” It sounded like a girl, trying not to cry.

“Yeah. I mean, yes, this is Clare Fergusson.”

“It’s me, Trisha MacPherson.” MacPherson. As in MacPherson and Engels, the celebration of Holy Matrimony, twelve o’clock this afternoon. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel the wedding.” The girl’s voice was choked with tears. Clare rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. Trisha’s fiancé must have dumped her. During their three sessions of premarital counseling, Clare had thought he looked shifty. A little too eager to please. The weasel.

“Trisha, I’m so sorry.” Clare sat up in bed, pulling herself away from the green, green pond and into the here and now. “I know it seems like the end of the world at this moment, but when someone breaks off an engagement, it’s a realistic reflection that they’re not ready to—”

“Nobody broke off the engagement!” Outrage tightened Trisha MacPherson’s voice. “Kurt is here with me right now. It’s my brother Todd. He was beaten up last night. He was hurt very…”

Trisha’s voice was replaced by a young man’s. “Reverend Fergusson?”

Clare was wide-awake now, the floating world drowned in cold shock. “Kurtis? What’s up?”

“Trish’s brother Todd was assaulted in his video store last night. His brother Tim went looking for him this morning when we couldn’t raise him at home…found him unconscious and called an ambulance. We’re all at the Glens Falls Hospital right now.”

“How is he doing?”

“It’s pretty bad. They’re taking him in right now for a ruptured spleen. There may be kidney and liver damage, too.”

Clare tilted her clock toward her. Eight-thirty. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, thanks, Reverend. I know Trish’s family aren’t churchgoers, but I think they could use…we could all use some extra…” he foundered. “Thanks.”

There are no agnostics in foxholes, she thought after hanging up, and I’m meeting a lot of folks in foxholes lately. She had to call the sexton and the organist to let them know the wedding was off, have someone at the church to help guests who wouldn’t hear the news in time, tell the florist—oh, no, no wedding flowers meant someone on the floral committee would have to whip up a quick arrangement for Sunday…. Despite the whirl of practical details, she couldn’t keep from wondering: Was it a terrible coincidence that Millers Kill had seen two violent attacks in the space of two days? Or was there some connection between Trisha’s brother’s assault and what had happened to Emil Dvorak?